


Artful Spirits

by Elanor Gardner (elanorgardner)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23554033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanorgardner/pseuds/Elanor%20Gardner
Summary: Frodo shows Merry how to handle conceited artists and controlling kin.Sequel to Kindred Spirits and High Spirits
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Merry Brandybuck
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

_**Prologue - Canvas** _

_Canvas: a heavy woven fabric made of flax or cotton commonly used as a support for oil painting; also, the background against which events unfold_

"If we do not complete the sitting _today_ , then your grandfather will _forfeit_ his deposit on the commission fee. I cannot and will not _work_ under these conditions!" The strident voice, with a very nasal Southfarthing accent, was loud enough to be heard all the way to Frogmorton. 

"Keep up that bellowing and you _will_ lose the commission!" Merry hissed through his teeth. Well, there _was_ a slight chance his mother might hear and discover this clandestine operation. Very slight. Minuscule actually.

" _What_ did you say?" 

Merry caught the movement in his peripheral vision -- a pale face with a wild nimbus of red hair emerged from behind the easel and canvas, undoubtedly glaring at Merry malevolently. 

As instructed -- no, as _commanded_ \-- hundreds of times, Merry kept his gaze on the wallpaper -- second blossom over from the doorframe (and fourth up from the wainscoting), did not change his expression, did not speak in response, and tried not to focus on the maddening slide of a drop of sweat down his shoulder blade or the equally maddening itch of his new, very stiff, shirt. And now his left foot was numb.

"Detestable brat--" the rest of the whispered imprecation trailed off into disgusted muttering as the head disappeared once more. Undoubtedly the toff didn't think that Merry could hear, in addition to thinking that he did not have a brain in his head.

Merry gritted his teeth. Insufferable, arrogant prig. He longed to fling himself at the poncy artist and knock his teeth -- and the container they were in -- into the Old Forest, but remembering the threat that his Grandfather Rorimac had voiced just this morning, Merry restrained himself. It had been _weeks_ since Yule and his Grandfather's birthday celebration was the first time he would see Frodo since they had parted at Yule. 

_"If you can't sit still long enough for that portrait to get finished, boy, then you aren't invited to the festivities. I'll see to it that Sara sends you off to the Burrows'. You need to learn a bit more about those new whites he's working down there."_

_"But Milo is coming to your party, Grandda."_

_Merry had known he had made a terrible mistake when his grandfather's face had gone bright red. "Boy, either sit for the portrait or pack now. If that portrait is not finished in time for me to gift it to your mother--" The eldest Brandybuck had lurched painfully to his feet, and it had taken everything Merry had to stand still in the glare of those blue eyes. "I will see to it that you are hip deep in manure in Budgeford for the next six months. And there'll be no cousins visiting and cosseting you either. Tweening is fine in its place, but you and I know you won't have long for that, the way things are around here."_

Nearly frowning at that thought, Merry caught himself stiffly and tried to be content with digging his fingernails into his palm. It wasn't fair! Why did he have to be worrying about the running of the Hall and holdings before he was even _close_ to his majority? It just wasn't fair. Of course, it wasn't fair to his mother either.

"You're doing that again with your lip," came the whiny, nasal voice. "Some may find it attractive, but I think it rather childish. Unless you want to hang in the main hall looking the faunt forever, I suggest you control your thoughts." 

Merry contented himself with thinking of all the various ways that he was going to torment the _blasted_ painter after the _blasted_ portrait was safely completed. First, he would find some of that itching powder that Pippin had used on Aunt Asphodel last year and sneak into the toff's room and pour it into his small clothes. 

"That's _much_ better! Just hold that thought," came the happy response from behind the easel.

Had he been in the mood, Merry might have laughed. But the idea of hours more of this torture was too painful to contemplate. 

_"I agreed to attempt to complete this commission only if the young Master will sit for me on Trewsday until I get what I need. There will be absolutely no interruptions. He can take his meals in the parlour and leave, if need be, for necessary-- things." At that point, the painter's nose had wrinkled up, and Merry had nearly sniggered. The toff likely couldn't say the word 'privy' without choking. Merry would have laughed if it hadn't been for the look on his grandfather's face. "But if he does not remain in pose for the duration, I will pack up my things and leave. This is unconscionable."_

_"Agreed," his grandfather had said quickly, then turned to growl at Merry. "Meriadoc, you heard Mister Bunce. If I hear that you have moved one hair on Trewsday without his permission, you better be packed as well."_

If only Frodo were here. He would make this ordeal bearable. He would agree with Merry that this Bunce fellow was a total toff and a complete waste of space. 

"Perfect! Now _that_ is an expression for the future Master of the Hall!"

Merry gritted his teeth and groaned as his head protested. Wonderful -- now a headache, in addition to everything else. He heard the bright swish of the brush on the palette picking up colour, then the dab of the brush against the canvas, followed by an interminable pause, then yet another dab. It seemed to Merry that the process was taking entirely too long and that the artist was enjoying his free room and board entirely too much. But when he had mentioned that suspicion to his grandfather, he had been very firmly put in his place. 

Insane. He was going to go quite completely and thoroughly insane -- screaming and blithering. But first he would have to remember to toss the toff out the window. That thought gave him a momentary feeling of satisfaction. 

Then there was a loud rumbling noise from his belly. No, he would starve. He would slowly starve to death. Why hadn't he eaten this morning? Just a sweet roll or a sausage would have been enough. But no, Grandfather Rorimac had to grab him out of bed and toss him in here with this -- this pitiful excuse for a hobbit -- before he had even managed a cup of tea.

And he hadn't eaten much last night either, under his grandfather's angry glare. It wasn't _his_ fault the toff kept insulting him until he lost his temper and stalked out of every sitting -- insufferable lout. And to make it worse, the smell of the paint made him dizzy and queasy -- it clung to his clothes and hair and he couldn't be rid of it no matter what he did. 

Merry's stomach growled warningly. It was certain. Starvation. That was it.  
***  
TBC


	2. Chapter One - Abbozzo

_Abbozzo: blocking in -- the first sketching done on the canvas; also, the first underpainting_

Frodo vaulted the fence easily and pulled off his jacket. The walk up into the vineyard had been exhilarating, though chilly at first. The sun was out and you could almost believe spring wasn't too far off, but his breath still fogged the air before him. He had not found Merry working with the pruners as his Aunt Esmeralda thought. And old Redfoot didn't seem to be aware the young Master was supposed to be up working with him today. Odd. His aunt knew the workings of the Hall and the holdings backwards and forwards -- likely she knew the whereabouts of every single hobbit, beast and insect on the entirety. Except, it appeared, her son.

Frodo looked beyond the smoke rising from the Hall's many chimneys below him to the distant glimmer of the Brandywine through the trees. He stooped to pick up his pack and settle it back on his shoulder, frowning. He had come ahead of Bilbo just to have some extra time with Merry, before the crowds of relatives and myriad well-wishers descended on the place for his Uncle Rory's birthday celebration in two days. And he had arisen rather early from a very nice and very warm bed at the Five Acorns just to get here in time for elevenses, or at least lunch, with his cousin. That is, if Merry's appetite for food won out over other appetites. 

He grinned to himself thinking of those other insatiable appetites of Merry's. Come to think of it, perhaps he had best eat _before_ he looked any further for his missing cousin. 

Heading down the hill, Frodo took the short cut that would lead him through the kitchen garden and right into Izzy's realm, if he was lucky and the old cook was in the kitchens today. 

Even in the deep of winter, the kitchen garden showed signs of tending and he could see the shadow of someone moving about beyond the steamed glass panes of the huge greenhouse, likely starting seedlings. The door was, as usual, propped open to allow a cooling breeze access to the always overly warm kitchens. He reached for the knob but stopped short at the sound of a familiar voice.

"Well, no one is askin' me, but that fella does think rather highly of hisself, don't he? I mean really. Tellin' me how to cook my pork roast, so as not to offend his sensibles." It was Izzy, and she was in full temper, from the sound of things -- the rather loud sound of things. "Hmmmpf. I'm inclined to put a nice sharpened butchering knife in Master Merry's silverware and see just what goes on."

"Well, that young Abelia told me--" There was a huge rattle of pans that eradicated part of whatever the unidentified kitchen lass was going to share about what young Abelia had said. "--and if the young Master doesn't sit still for the rest of the day, the old Master'll be sending him off and he'll be missin' the whole thing."

Frodo frowned. The young Master had to be Merry. The old had to be his Uncle Rory. 

"Don't touch that, Bingo!" Izzy shouted -- likely at some poor kitchen lad. "We have more than we need to worry with all the extra guests _and_ the feasts _and_ the dance _and_ the party. No! You peel that _this_ way. Are you wrong-handed as well as empty-headed?"

Frodo stifled a laugh. The Brandy Hall kitchens always sounded and looked like complete chaos, until you saw the meals carried out the door and into the dining halls. But watching Izzy in action -- or rather listening to her -- was always a delight. 

"I am not needin' some rude Southfarthing toff gettin' high-handed about _my_ cooking with all this goin' on. I will hand him his head on that canvas of his and good riddance."

Southfarthing toff? Canvas? Frodo's eyebrows rose. Not Todo Bunce the artist surely? The last time Todo had painted a Brandybuck family portrait -- his Uncle Merimac's -- it had turned into a fiasco that ended with some fine silk wallpaper stained with all the colours of the rainbow and Todo's eye a nice shade of black and blue. Merimac had a low tolerance for high-handedness and Todo defined the term. The portrait, however, was quite fine and hung in a place of honour in the main hall. He couldn't imagine why his Uncle Rory would even think of asking _Todo_ to paint Merry's portrait, of all things. 

"And as for the _painting_ , I am betting that great peacock finished the thing ages ago and is just milking the Old Master for a room and plenty of food and wine. If it weren't a gift for the mistress--" she clicked her tongue loudly. 

Izzy wasn't a fool. That was certain. Apparently his Uncle Rory was planning on giving a portrait of Merry as a birthday gift to his Aunt Esmeralda. And with Merry's temperament, they would be lucky if the subject _or_ the artist survived the experience. 

He pushed open the door. "I followed my nose all the way from Hobbiton, and where do I find myself?" 

Izzy's round frame spun about and for a moment she blinked in the bright light from the door behind him, then her eyes widened and she grinned, showing that broad gap where one tooth was missing. "Why Master Frodo, as I live and breathe!!" She wiped her hands furiously on her apron and held out her arms. He obligingly dropped his pack and gave her a tight hug and a quick kiss on each cheek -- each very moist and red cheek. She smelled of spice and pepper today -- sharp and tangy. 

Izzy held him at arm's length, looking him up and down. It was odd to realize that he was taller than her now. So many memories of looking up at Izzy -- a much younger Izzy -- crowded through his mind. 

"So, have you stayed healthy then?"

He frowned then recalled his illness while visiting the Hall at Yule. "I have been just fine. Fit as a fiddle my dear Izzy. And you?"

"Heh. I canna afford to be sick with _this_ lot. Get back to WORK, those will not peel themselves!" She waved at the staff, who were all standing about taking the interruption as a chance to rest for a moment. Instantly, the peeling, chopping, and stirring began anew and the noise level went up. "So, you are a bit early for the doings, are ya not?"

"Indeed I am. Here to surprise my cousin and keep him and the fauntlings out of trouble and out of your way."

Izzy's expression was almost laughable as one eyebrow went up and the other down. "Not long ago I would've said having you here _means_ trouble--"

Frodo squinted back at her. "Why Izzy--" 

"But it appears that my Frodo-lad has grown a bit these last few years." She grinned. "No longer a wild tween, eh?" 

Frodo was surprised to feel himself blushing. Only Izzy could do this to him. 

"Well--" She leaned over conspiratorially. "Still a wild tween in some ways, eh?" She winked broadly. 

"No more than you, my fair Izzy, my first true love," Frodo responded, bowing over her hand.

"Oh you." Izzy waved her hand. "Yer a fine one my Frodo-lad. No, you sow those wild oats long as you can. Soon enough the trappings of life will catch up to ya and drag ya down. Enjoy yerself while your pieces and parts still work, before the aches and pains of old age set in." 

"Your joints paining you much?"

"Some days worse 'en others. Some days worse 'en others." Izzy sat back on her stool, from which she had ruled the kitchen for quite a long while, and picked up her wooden spoon -- both sceptre and goad. "So, I suspect yer lookin' for that rascally young Master of ours, eh?"

"In a way. I know what he is doing and why, I just don't know where."

Izzy crossed her arms and cocked her head, her lips tightly sealed. Frodo knew immediately that this would require a great deal of guessing about the situation -- as well as a silver tongue. 

"My suspicion is that my intervention is required, likely about now, or a certain Southfarthing artist is going to be found splattered on the courtyard cobblestones. Actually, I think that would be a desirable place for said artist to end up, _but_ I do wish for Aunt Esme to receive her lovely birthday gift and for my cousin to be able to attend the festivities. So, I am trying to find out which parlour Aunt Esme is most desirous of re-papering. I will assume that is the one that they have hidden Merry and our dear Mister Ponce-- I mean Bunce -- away in." Frodo smiled. 

At that, Izzy snorted, as did a couple of others in the kitchen, but a wave of her spoon stopped all that. "Oh, you are grown to such a charmer, my Frodo-lad. I _knew_ that Mister Bilbo would do right by you, and he has. You are a saucy one." She poked at him with her spoon and he made a flourishing bow in response. "But, you need fattening up lad. I still say a few weeks of my food and you would have a decent belly on you."

"You are absolutely correct, my dearest Izzy. Uncle Bilbo has given me authority once more to offer you the position of head cook at Bag End, if you choose to accept it." 

Izzy giggled this time, just like a lass. "Yer Uncle is a saucy one as well. Hmmpf. Head cook at Bag End. Hmmpf." She planted her hands firmly on her hips. "Well, I will say this, there are trays of my best pork roast, buttered parsnips, asparagus, and all manner of dishes heading up the back stairs to some parlour. I would say that you could start putting some meat on your bones by following that lot and digging in when you get there, afore some toff eats the whole of it."

Frodo grinned and leaned forward to plant a kiss on one plump cheek. "I will enjoy the repast immensely! My eternal gratitude!" He grabbed his pack and slung it over his shoulder as he headed for the door that led to the back stairs. 

"Whoa! Just a moment there, impatient Baggins!" 

Frodo turned just as Izzy waved her spoon in the direction of one of the lads. "Nim, I suspect I did not send enough wine up with that meal. Bring me a bottle -- no two bottles -- of that lovely red from last year. I think we still have a few in the first pantry -- and two glasses. Be quick about it, boy!"

The lad ran for the pantries.

Izzy leaned close. "Now, I don't want none of the Hall's best wasted on a bit of Southfarthing fungus. That table wine I sent up is plenty fine for his like. Is that understood?"

Frodo grinned. "Yes m'am."

"And I do expect a full report on the comeuppance of the toff before you head off again for the nether regions," she whispered.

Frodo laughed and bowed obediently.

The lad emerged quickly with two bottles of red wine, clearly emblazoned with the Hall's crest, and two glasses. Izzy held the bottles up to the light and checked the corks carefully. 

"With my blessing." She handed the bottles and the glasses to Frodo. 

He grinned and bowed once more, sliding the bottles into his pack and taking the glasses in one hand as he headed for the doorway to the backstairs. The distant chatter and noise of the kitchen lads carrying trays of food and drink to 'some parlour' echoed down the stairwell as he started up.

So far, this visit was decidedly _not_ going as planned.

***

TBC


	3. Chapter Two - Imprimatura

_Imprimatura: an initial stain of colour painted on a ground that will allow light falling onto the painting to reflect through the paint layers_

The growling in his belly had given way to queasiness, and Merry strongly suspected that his body had given up and was beginning the process that would end up with him being found dead on the floor. Things were numb that should not be numb. It was harder and harder to focus on that blossom in the wallpaper. Was it the second from the doorframe or the fourth? And the headache had drifted into a strange woozy feeling, as if his head was floating somewhere above his body. That was going to make for a very interesting portrait. He could see himself trying to explain it to his mother. No, no, he wouldn't be explaining it. He would be dead. That's right.

"You are looking a good deal like a wretched, hungry little fauntling, Master Brandybuck -- not at all like the future Master of the Hall. Whatever it was you were thinking before -- think _that_." 

The woozy feeling faded as Merry remembered who it was that was torturing him. Pushing the toff out the window would not be as satisfactory as shoving his head into his own paints and then using him as a paintbrush on the wall and the floor -- and then out the window with him. Merry knew his mother wanted to replace the wallpaper in this parlour anyway and the rug wasn't much better -- and getting him down to the courtyard the shortest way would be best for all concerned.

"Precisely. Hold that thought." 

A noise in the hall made Merry twitch and various pieces and parts start hurting a bit. His head seemed to have re-attached itself and now felt oddly heavy. The red head popped up from behind the canvas and they both listened intently. If Merry's mother chose today, of all days, to come to this musty, unused parlour -- surely she had more important things to do with all the parties and guests and-- His grandfather had concocted a ruse about an aunt whose portrait Bunce was supposedly painting and even the staff was in on it -- helping to schedule the sittings so that she was not in the vicinity. Merry wondered briefly what his grandfather would do to him if his mother found out at this late date, after all his efforts to keep it secret.

There was a sharp rap on the door and the nitwit made some exasperated noise.

"Oh, drat it all. I don't suppose _you_ could answer that, could you?"

"Not if I can't move," Merry hissed between clenched teeth.

"You may move. It is likely our lunch and I cannot continue to concentrate with your stomach growling that loudly."

Merry sighed with relief and started to roll his shoulders.

" _Wait!_ You will fill your plate and return to your pose as best you can while you eat -- for the light and shadow on your clothing you know."

Merry frowned, shrugging his shoulders painfully. "What? But, you'll be _eating_!" His voice sounded rusty and strained, as if it had gone unused for days. 

"Of course _I'll_ be eating. But I need to study you while I do so."

" _Study_ me?" It was on purpose -- just to torture Merry. Or perhaps Merry just wasn't hearing him plainly -- his head was whirling oddly after all.

"Are we agreed, or do I need pack my things?" That was likely delivered with that huge hawk nose stuck right up in the air and one hand on his hip like some matron aunt.

Merry rolled his eyes and they hurt as well. "Agreed. May I move?"

The door swung open. "No point in standing on ceremony when I am starved and my cousin is likely starved as well," came a familiar, beloved voice. "Merry? Are you hiding out in here?"

Merry's heart leapt into his throat and every bit of the blood in his body rushed to his face then headed south at a rapid pace, which made the whole whirling issue with his head much worse. 

Frodo stepped into the parlour looking quizzically about. He had obviously come right from the road -- still in his hiking clothes with his pack slung over his shoulder, his hair wind-blown, his cheeks pink from the wind and cold -- and two wine glasses dangling from one hand. Looking in the direction of the artist and his canvas, Frodo frowned then stepped further into the room and turned to search for Merry, spotting him quickly in his assigned pose.

Just to be the focus of that regard -- to watch those eyes darken and go soft, that smile go from congenial to something decidedly more heated as it turned on him -- Merry felt the blood rush back into his chest and flutter wildly. 

"Frodo," he croaked, standing up and promptly falling down. 

"Merry!" came Frodo's concerned cry.

"If he has ruined his clothes, I will _not_ be responsible for the results. This is just _unconscionable_." 

Merry had no doubt as to whom _that_ was. But he was busy studying a bit of the carpet at the moment. The design was quite intricate, but his mother was right -- it needed replacing.

Then Frodo was kneeling beside him. Merry could tell just from the warm scent of him -- juniper and a hint of spice. A firm hand gripped his elbow. "Merry? What's wrong?"

"My foot-- my leg went to sleep. Been sitting there for hours. _Bugger all._ " Merry rolled over and poked at his leg, then shook his head to clear it. 

"What happened to your voice?" 

Merry looked up and found Frodo at his shoulder, frowning worriedly. Those two little wrinkles between his eyebrows were in full force and the sultry smile was gone. Leave it to Merry to ruin the mood completely by _falling down_.

"I don't-- well, actually, I didn't make it to breakfast and I-- well I ended up here and I-- I don't think I've had anything to drink today. I'm just a bit dried up." Merry grinned. "But you're early, Frodo! You've come early."

"Here. Let's get you back up in the chair, at least." Frodo braced Merry's elbow with both hands and stood, pulling Merry back up and depositing him on the overstuffed chair. "I seem to be picking you up off the floor a great deal of late."

"You do." Merry agreed, still grinning. 

Frodo hunkered down in front of Merry and gave him an assessing look, then reached out his hand to cup Merry's face, gently stroking Merry's cheek with his thumb.

"I've missed you, cousin," Frodo said softly. 

Well, _that_ part of Merry was working just fine, _thankyouverymuch_. Merry closed his eyes and shivered, leaning into the warm caress. How could Frodo do that with just one touch, one whisper? At that moment, Merry's leg decided to catch fire.

"Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. OUCH." Merry chanted, holding his leg through the unbearable sensation of pins and needles. "Bugger ALL!" 

Strong hands wrapped firmly around Merry's thigh, kneading and rubbing rapidly, working their way down to his calf and back up. "It will pass quickly enough." 

Merry opened his eyes to find Frodo gazing at him with concern. 

"How long have you been sitting there like that, without moving?" Frodo asked, his fingers still massaging. 

"I-- Forever." Merry responded, smiling with relief as the pins and needles sensation in his leg gradually faded under Frodo's skilled manipulation. Frodo's hands-- Frodo's fingers moving on his thighs. The pins and needles headed straight up his spine and danced inside his belly. 

"You've come early," Merry managed. Then he realized, vaguely, that he was repeating himself, like some love-struck idiot. 

Frodo grinned. "Yes, I have. Only to find my erstwhile cousin is not in the vineyard helping with the pruning as his mother thought, but is hidden away in this rather dismal and dusty parlour skiving off work." 

"Much rather be up in the mud than in _here_ \--" Merry whispered and jerked his head toward the artist, then winced as his head and neck both protested. 

A disdainful voice from behind the easel interrupted. "We were to be left _alone_ according to my contract."

Frodo frowned briefly. Then he smiled at Merry, his eyes sparkling. Merry watched, fascinated, as Frodo's eyes narrowed and his lips tilted into a rather evil-looking smirk.

Merry somehow remembered that he had to warn Frodo about the situation. "Grandfather did--" 

"Sshhhh," Frodo held a finger up to his lips, then moved that finger forward to caress Merry's mouth slowly. "I did not come all this way to watch some Southfarthing peacock push you about. I do plan to spend a bit of the afternoon tormenting _him_." Frodo leaned forward, his lips against Merry's ear. "And the rest of the day tormenting _you_ \-- cousin," he whispered.

Merry's brain completely ceased to function at that point -- or at least the one in his skull. The other one was -- happily -- responding quite well. 

"Just sit there and I'll get you a plate of food and something decent to drink." Frodo straightened up slowly.

Merry watched, fascinated, as Frodo just stood there, quietly, and transformed -- from a dishevelled traveller in mud-splattered breeches into a gentlehobbit who may as well have been groomed to the nines and wearing velvet and satin -- just the cant of his shoulders, the lift of his chin, the gleam in his eye, and the expression on his face. One slow, sly wink at Merry and he spun on his heel.

***

TBC


	4. Chapter Three - Tempera

_Tempera: a painting medium in which pigment is mixed with water-soluble glutinous materials such as size or egg yolk_

"I said that we were _not_ to be disturbed. Everyone must leave at _once_ ," Todo blustered.

Frodo was fuming, but he hid it quickly behind a smile as he motioned to the kitchen lads to spread the lunch dishes on the sideboard, pointedly ignoring Todo, who started making odd exasperated noises. 

The staff moved quickly in from the hall and set out the dishes without a lot of fuss and noise. Frodo spotted an old retainer who he had known for many years, and motioned to him. 

"Nad, I have a couple of bottles of the Hall's best in my pack there on the floor next to Master Meriadoc's chair and two glasses there next to it. Could you open a bottle and pour two glasses for us -- and manage a pitcher of fresh water as well?"

"Yes sir. And I will fill a plate for you and the young Master, if that is acceptable."

"I will be forever indebted to you. And can you move that low table there closer to Master Meriadoc and put our luncheon on it?"

"Yes sir, Mister Frodo. And I will put the bottle aside for you and the young Master to finish." Nad bowed deeply, then looked up and winked.

Frodo tried not to smile. He was incensed with his Uncle Rory for trapping Merry -- who everyone -- _everyone_ \-- knew could not suffer being confined indoors or tolerate arrogant fools for any length of time at all -- in a musty parlour with an absolutely unbearable toff. And on top of it all, the pompous twit was lording it over Merry like some blasted tyrant just because his Uncle wanted a suitable birthday gift. 

But what was really inconceivable was that Merry had put up with all of it for this long. The Merry that Frodo knew would have long ago told the nitwit -- no, he would have _thrown_ Todo out the window, or at least up against the wall -- he certainly would not have tolerated being tortured for hours. 

Frodo wished, only for a moment, that he had had the time to freshen up, brush his hair, and change into something at least a bit more suited for the parlour than the road. But as his best clothes were coming on the pony trap with Bilbo, he would have to make do. He turned and strolled over to where the easel stood, with a huge canvas propped on it, next to it a table spread with a tarp and an array of jars and crocks and tools of the artist's trade -- and, Frodo noted, a half-eaten piece of Izzy's plum cake, an empty bottle of wine, a plate that had probably contained sausages, and two apple cores. The smell of paint was even more overwhelming here, but he could still smell something old and stale beneath it -- likely Todo. The artist was standing behind his canvas, as if it were a barricade protecting him from attack. His head was cocked sideways and he had one hand on his hip, his paintbrush held in the other. 

Todo still looked like nothing so much as an odd crane fly -- unusually tall with spindly legs and arms, a paunchy belly, and a shocking head of red hair that just would not be tamed. A ridiculous looking smock, spotted with paint, crumbs and grease spots, protected his clothes, which were undoubtedly the bright, clashing colours that he affected. For an artist, Frodo recalled, Todo's taste in clothing was atrocious. Of course, his face was, as always, frozen in a smirk of disapproval -- the hooked nose adding to the appearance. Frodo could see the clear signs of age -- grey hair amongst the red, dry yellowing skin, sullen wrinkles around the crabbed mouth. And likely because Frodo was much taller than he had been at their last encounter, Todo seemed much, much shorter. 

"Rorimac _assured_ me that the staff would be completely unobtrusive and circumspect when they delivered meals. No one is to approach the subject or the artist during the process," Todo said in that condescending tone, waving his paintbrush at Frodo as if it were some weapon that would protect him from the lower classes. 

Frodo clasped his hands behind his back casually, just so he would not be tempted to use them to choke the supercilious fop. He had dared to call Merry's grandfather -- the old Master of the Hall -- by his first name -- as if he were some casual acquaintance or -- heaven forbid -- a friend. Frodo knew things could not be further from the truth, but his Uncle sincerely believed that Todo Bunce was the best painter in the Shire. He could be forgiven for wanting the very best portrait of Merry that he could buy; so Frodo bit back the more appropriate response and turned his head slowly, glancing at the quiet work going on behind him. 

"They _are_ indeed being unobtrusive and circumspect, aren't they? Miz Izzy does a marvellous job with her staff, I believe," Frodo said quietly.

"You--" the tone was imperious as Todo pulled his lanky form up even further and expanded his chest. Frodo was reminded of nothing so much as a peacock preparing to spread its tail -- a rather seedy, old peacock.

"Yes! I am delighted that you remember me." Frodo executed a very shallow bow and smiled broadly. "It has been some time."

The watery grey eyes finally focused on him as an object worth some kind of attention, then Todo lowered his brush and leaned forward, blinking. "And you are--"

"Frodo Baggins. Difficult name to recall, I know." Frodo smiled. "I am here -- on behalf of my Uncle -- to assist you in any way I can in creating the very best portrait possible of the future Master of the Hall."

Todo's expression was skeptical. "Baggins? Have I painted you?"

"No. Indeed, I have not had the pleasure." Frodo heard a strange choked noise from behind him. " _I_ am here -- on behalf of the Master -- to make sure your subject doesn't expire from hunger or thirst and remains happily in that chair without falling out of it for the remainder of your sitting. Do feel free, however, to fill your plate and partake of the wonderful spread that Miz Izzy has created for us -- that is if you have the time."

"Fill my--" Todo looked over just as the unobtrusive staff shut the door. "If I have--"

"Certainly. I know how very important that a referral from the Master must be to you, so I know that you don't want to risk losing it by missing the deadline on this commission." Frodo leaned over conspiratorially, glancing quickly at the portrait as he did so. "Especially since the entire Took and Brandybuck families will be here over the next few days -- and you know how word of something like that can spread -- particularly with the Tooks. And they have so _many_ family members to paint, you know."

"I _beg_ your pardon. Just _who_ are you again?" Todo asked, stepping in front of the canvas protectively.

"Baggins -- Frodo Baggins of Bag End." Frodo smiled, straightening, allowing the smile to slide just a tad toward a smirk, and lifting one eyebrow. The idiot would remember soon enough, but hopefully not _too_ soon. "Now, I am going to make sure your subject doesn't faint away from lack of food and drink." He waved his hand toward the sideboard. "Feel free to help yourself to the wine. I am sure it is quite good."

There was an annoyed noise from behind him as Frodo spun about and went back toward Merry. Frodo was fairly certain Todo had counted on quaffing some of the Hall's best vintage at some point during the day -- perhaps all day, if his suspicions were accurate. He frowned when he realized Merry had slid right back into the pose he had been in when Frodo first saw him, but Merry _was_ looking decidedly better than he had when Frodo first barged in the door. Frodo was relieved. He had thought for a moment that Merry had taken ill when he had collapsed to the floor. 

"Now, cousin, let's make sure you get some water first before that wine. We don't want you looking tipsy in this lovely portrait of yours," Frodo said jovially, picking up a chair and carrying it with him.

Frodo placed the chair carefully, ensuring that the ponce could not see his face, for the moment, but Merry could see Frodo quite clearly.

From the sound of things behind Frodo, gluttony had won out over offended sensibilities. Frodo glanced back and saw that Todo had made his way to the table and was now loading not one, but two plates with food. It was a wonder the idiot still looked so puny, as much as he ate.

Merry did still look a bit addled, but there was colour in his cheeks. He was smiling bemusedly at Frodo as he sat down and Frodo looked quickly at the wine glass to be sure his cousin hadn't already indulged.

"How are you, love? Better?" Frodo whispered.

Merry shook his head in the negative and muttered, "Much." 

Frodo peered at him closely. "You need some food, cousin." He picked up the jug of water and poured Merry a glass quickly. "Drink this first."

Merry took it, just a trifle shakily, and shut his eyes as he drank it down thirstily.

"If you _insist_ on being here, for the moment, do make sure that he remains in pose at least from the waist so that I may study the clothing properly." Todo pronounced with a pretentious air. "This is just _unconscionable_."

Frodo frowned and turned his head to look at the artist, who was still picking over the food. Todo was trying to avoid appearing to pay them any attention, but Frodo caught a gleam as the grey eyes shifted in their direction.

"Now," Frodo looked at the heaping plates of steaming food, the basket full of -- by the smell that rose from beneath the napkin -- Izzy's fabulous rolls, the crocks of butter, pickles, and preserves -- and _his_ own stomach growled noisily.

At almost the same time, Merry managed to set the empty glass back on the table and his stomach growled loudly as well.

Frodo laughed and sat down, picking up a napkin to place across Merry's lap and protect those lovely -- tight -- breeches.

"Tch tch tch!! Nothing on the clothing. I need to see it clearly. And don't you _dare_ drop any food on it. I could not concentrate with some-- _thing_ sullying that lovely sheen of the velvet." Todo pronounced archly. 

Merry frowned darkly. Frodo could tell his arrival had likely been well timed. Any later and the unlucky Todo _and_ his canvas would likely have ended up on the courtyard cobblestones, unless Merry had passed out first from lack of food and water.

"The whole effect would be _ruined_. Actually, it may already be. I believe I _have_ completely lost my _focus_ with all this--" 

Frodo imagined that Todo was flailing his arms about, not unlike the bug he resembled. He had a momentary fantasy of swatting the toff with something. 

"Never mind him, love. We will deal with him later." Frodo whispered vehemently over Todo's snivelling voice in the background as he handed Merry a plate and fork and covered his own plate with his napkin. Then he said loudly. "Fill up the corners, cousin. It will make for a much better portrait if you are not looking quite so-- _insatiable_ , I am sure." 

There was a slight sound of approval from behind him, but Frodo was watching Merry. He saw the slightest change in his cousin's eyes, then Merry licked his lips. But Merry wasn't looking at the plate. He was gazing at Frodo's mouth. 

***

TBC


	5. Chapter Four - Impasto

_Impasto: the application of thick layers of pigment to a canvas or other surface in painting_

Starved. He was starved. He could smell the food right under his nose, but all he could see was Frodo's luscious mouth, right in front of him. How long had it been since he had-- eaten? He hadn't eaten much since yesterday at lunch. Famished. But all he could see was that mouth. Merry tried hard to focus, but he was suddenly feeling quite light-headed. 

Suddenly the mouth frowned. "Eat Merry -- NOW." It said. 

He blinked as the plate he was holding was pushed up toward him and the fork in his hand aimed at a pile of roast pork. So _that_ was where the smell was coming from! Luckily Izzy's roast simply fell apart when approached by a fork and he managed to get some into his mouth. Once there, his taste buds finally woke up and his stomach groaned appreciatively. 

Heavens. He was ravenous. Merry dug into the piles of luscious food with gusto and the light-headed feeling seemed to recede. Gradually, as he filled his very empty belly, Merry became aware of his surroundings. 

There was something white beneath the plate. He thought it looked too far away to be the tablecloth. But he wasn't at the table, was he? He shook his head to clear it. It was a napkin being held carefully up under his plate and over his breeches. He looked up to find Frodo smiling at him, holding the napkin patiently.

"Better, love?"

"Frodo. You _are_ here." Merry said, with his mouth full. He swallowed quickly looking down at the nearly empty plate. "I'm sorry. Did I grab your plate?" He tried to look apologetic as he looked back up. 

Frodo smiled broader and shook his head. "No, love, that is your plate. You were just-- rather hungry."

"Starved more like. That poncy artist--"

Frodo shook his head slightly and Merry realized said poncy artist was holding a very full glass of wine and his fork at the same time, and glaring at Merry over his own heaping plate of food. 

"That poncy artist is driving me right round the bend," he whispered. 

"I could tell. But from what I hear, you are his captive today until he finishes that portrait for your mother." Frodo responded in a whisper. "Do you want seconds?" Then he rolled his eyes. "Why am I even asking?" Frodo tossed the napkin onto the table and grabbed a glass of wine, holding it out to Merry as he took the empty plate. "Take care not to drip any of that on yourself while I get you some more food, cousin," he said loudly. 

"Indeed," Todo chimed in agreeably. 

Merry restrained himself from glaring at the toff and applied himself to the wine -- the Hall's best. That proved it. Izzy was in love with the Bagginses -- _both_ of them. 

He took a large gulp of the wine as he watched Frodo quickly navigate the table full of food, filling another plate quickly. Merry was especially interested in the way that Frodo's jacket seemed to be hiked up in the back as he leaned over the sideboard to put the cover for the pork roast aside -- revealing a very nicely toned behind clad in dark blue wool. That was Merry's favourite part of his cousin -- well, next to his mouth-- and then there was his--

Hearing a noise from the toff's direction that distracted him, Merry looked over and nearly dropped his wine glass.

The ponce was leaning over staring, with rather obvious appreciation, at Frodo's arse. 

Merry felt his face go hot as his blood went to an immediate boil. There was likely steam coming out of his ears. 

"Did you say I had painted you before-- is it 'Frodo'?"

Frodo turned, looking over his shoulder, with his bum still in the air -- and batted his eyelashes at the twit! Merry's mouth dropped open as he watched Todo twitch and spill some of his wine on his smock in reaction.

"No. I believe I would remember an experience like _that_." Frodo said slowly as he straightened. "And you would as well."

Frodo batted his eyelashes _again_ and smiled -- coyly! Merry watched in amazement. This wasn't his cousin. This was some other creature blatantly flirting, like some lass, with _Todo Bunce_! 

Merry felt his stomach heave a bit. The very concept of Frodo Baggins behaving like some lass was so incongruous as to make him lose that marvellous luncheon he had just devoured, but to see his cousin flirting with the biggest fop in the Shire was just disgusting! Undoubtedly Todo had no recollection whatsoever of Frodo, or he would know just how far removed from reality this-- this creature really was! 

Frodo strolled casually back over to Merry, holding out the plate. 

"Please close your mouth, Merry." Frodo whispered, making an odd face at him. "You'll give it away."

Merry snapped his mouth shut and widened his eyes. 

"Here, love. Eat up." Frodo held out the full plate.

Merry shook his head. "No, you go ahead. I need to let my stomach settle a bit." He whispered back, widening his eyes even more.

Frodo sat the plate down and covered it carefully with the napkin. Digging into the basket full of rolls, he buttered four quickly and handed two to Merry, putting two on his own plate. He grabbed plate and napkin and fork eagerly, and sat down to dig into his food. "I am absolutely famished, after hunting for you half the morning. Is the wine delicious as usual?" He scooped up his glass and drank without waiting for an answer. 

"You-- you just-- What did you just do?" Merry whispered, motioning with his head toward the artist, who was still shoving food in his mouth.

Frodo glanced back in the direction of Todo, smiling evilly. "Just a bit of tormenting," he whispered. "As promised."

Frodo waggled his eyebrows as Merry had often seen Bilbo do and then winked, setting down his glass again and digging into the pork. 

Merry bit into one of the rolls thoughtfully, then smiled. Perhaps the rest of this blasted sitting might _not_ be so bad after all. And then there was this evening to look forward to. There was a nice warm feeling in his belly at the thought -- and it wasn't the wine. 

"Oh, this is heavenly. Only Izzy can cook pork like this -- so succulent and juicy. It just shivers and falls apart when you _touch_ it," Frodo said in an odd breathy voice.

Merry took a huge gulp of his wine as the tingling in his belly threatened to spread from the tips of his ears all the way down to his toes. He looked up in time to catch the artist staring at Frodo. 

He looked back at Frodo. "You really are quite depraved you know," he whispered.

Frodo looked up from his food and smiled. "I know," he whispered back. 

"Eat up, cousin. For I am certain that soon Mister Bunce will need to focus his worthy attentions above your waist rather than just _below_ it," Frodo said.

Merry felt that one all the way to his toes, and he enjoying seeing Todo shudder, but he wasn't sure how _he_ was going to feel if Frodo kept this up all afternoon. The breeches were rather tight in certain spots already. Shaking his head, Merry set about finishing off the rolls, drinking down the wine, and giving the seconds a decent go. He noticed when Todo stood and returned to putter behind his canvas.

Frodo leaned over and grabbed the wine bottle, refilling Merry's glass hastily and handing him a roll from his own plate. "Drink up, love. I want you to be good and relaxed while Mister Bunce has his way with you this afternoon," he exclaimed. 

Something fell over behind the canvas and Merry nearly laughed out loud. Oh yes, this _was_ going to be quite entertaining and he could tolerate a bit of discomfort just to see the idiot artist squirm on Frodo's hook. He ate the roll quickly and drank down the wine. 

"We are losing the _light_!" Todo exclaimed dramatically.

Frodo put down his plate and stood, slowly taking Merry's glass and setting it aside. 

Merry wondered how they could lose the light when it was mid-day. 

Frodo leaned over him. "Do you need anything else, love?" he whispered, his hair brushing across Merry's ear.

Merry shivered and reached up to grasp Frodo's hand. "Just you." 

Frodo turned Merry's hand over and bent until his mouth was a breath away from the palm. "You already have me." His lips touched lightly, sending a flush of warmth up Merry's arm. Then he turned and moved his chair slightly to sit back down, moving his glass and picking up his plate once more. Undoubtedly the food was cold by now, Merry suddenly realized, looking up to meet Frodo's knowing smile. 

"I don't think that is quite right." Todo said. "Pull your shoulders back a bit. Are you looking at the proper spot on the wall?" 

Merry knew he had the blasted pose memorized by now. His body fell into it by rote, but he suddenly realized that, where Frodo was seated, his head was exactly where Merry's spot on the wall had been. At that moment, Frodo turned his head and gazed at him. 

It was clear that Frodo had placed the chair there on purpose when the expression on his face changed -- Frodo pulled up his chin and suddenly looked every bit the Master of Bag End personified. Merry found himself lifting his chin in response. 

"Perfect! Perhaps Mister Baggins _is_ a good influence," Todo declared

Merry watched as Frodo's mouth quirked. Then Frodo winked at him and picked up his fork to finish his lunch. For a moment, Merry thought perhaps he might live through the afternoon. 

But after just a few bites, Merry realized that he had never seen Frodo eat quite like this before. Frodo had always seemed to treat food as an interruption or accompaniment to something -- conversation, reading -- never the way he was treating _this_ plate of food. Certainly Frodo's love for Izzy's cooking was well known -- actually infamous -- but the way that he was savouring every bite of this was different. Merry found himself fascinated with Frodo's mouth -- the way his lips closed deliberately over the fork, the way his tongue slipped slowly out to lick a bit of parsnip off his lip, the way he seemed to languidly study the food on the plate to find the best bit for his next forkful.

When Frodo leaned over to scoop up his glass, Merry almost shook his head to clear it, barely catching himself when he remembered at the last moment where he was and what he was doing. He was feeling decidedly flushed and warm -- and prickly.

Frodo lifted the glass in a silent toast toward Merry, smiling, then took a drink -- a rather sloppy drink which resulted in a drip skating down the side of the glass. Of course, Frodo slowly licked the side of the glass clean. And of course, he didn't take his eyes off of Merry as he did so. Merry shivered when he realized that there was a drop sliding down Frodo's chin as well. Frodo lifted a finger to his mouth and moistened it with his tongue, then slowly used it to trace the path of the wine from his chin back up to his lips. Holding his breath without realizing it, Merry watched as Frodo contemplated the finger for a moment, then slowly sucked it into his mouth. 

It was then that Merry began to doubt whether he really _was_ going to survive the afternoon.

***  
TBC


	6. Chapter Five - Trompe l'oeil

_Trompe l'oeil: an art technique involving extremely realistic imagery in order to create the optical illusion that the depicted objects really exist; also, "deceive the eye"_

There was something like a sighing sound from the vicinity of the canvas and Frodo carefully shifted his gaze in that direction to see if his efforts were having any impact on their intended target. From the erratic speed of Merry's breathing, it was apparent they were affecting Merry, but that couldn't be helped and wouldn't do any lasting harm -- at least nothing that couldn't easily be dealt with later. He found his own breathing a bit ragged at _that_ thought. 

Todo clearly was not paying very much attention either to his subject or to the canvas. His mouth was open slightly -- obviously he was having a tad bit of trouble with respiration as well -- as he gazed in Frodo's direction. Frodo couldn't really tell much else, without blatantly looking, but it was enough to know that, so far, his ploy was working. 

Slowly pulling his finger out of his mouth, Frodo listened in satisfaction to another sound from Todo's direction and a sharp intake of breath from Merry. Carefully licking his finger again, Frodo reached down to pick up his remaining roll, bringing it to his mouth as slowly as he could and taking a dainty bite. He closed his eyes, tossed his head back just a bit, and sighed -- loudly -- at the taste. It would have been so much better hot, but it still tasted luscious enough to evoke that reaction -- especially the butter. There was just something about Brandy Hall butter.

He ate the entire thing, slowly and with relish, licked each of his fingers carefully, then took another slow drink of the wine. He would need to snog Izzy thoroughly for the wine. It was absolutely delicious.

When Frodo opened his eyes at last, Merry's gaze on him had darkened, the indigo of those gorgeous eyes disappearing into black and a flush of colour on his cheeks. Merry _was_ just breathtaking with his golden colouring in that light burgundy jacket -- and those very tight dark burgundy velvet breeches -- very tight and revealing velvet breeches. The portrait that resulted from all this was undoubtedly going to be quite distracting hanging in the main hall. Frodo studied Merry's breeches just a little longer then looked up to find that Merry's mouth had opened just slightly. He smiled at Merry and winked slowly, then turned his head to look in Todo's direction, a bit more obviously this time. 

Todo hadn't noticed Merry's expression slip at all, but was staring at Frodo, his sallow cheeks pink, his eyes wide. 

"Is something amiss, Mister Bunce?" Frodo cocked his head sideways and put on what he hoped was an innocent, quizzical look. 

"Uh...amiss? No, no, not at all." Todo's voice was a big rough. "Studying the light, that's all." 

"Indeed. Well, that gives me a chance to get a bit of seconds then." Frodo got up quickly and went around Merry to the little table, sidling around it carefully until his back was to the artist, then leaning over to slowly select and butter another roll and carefully pick a very large pickle for his plate -- all the while with his rear end in the air. After sufficient time, he straightened and returned to his chair, risking a quick glance at Todo. 

The red head disappeared quickly behind the canvas and something clattered. 

Smiling to himself, Frodo sat down, balancing the plate on his knees and indulging in the roll, which was actually a bit warm and had melted the butter just a bit. He bit into it ecstatically and devoured it quickly this time, not wanting to overdo the effect. But he couldn't resist a quick look at Merry as he started to lick his fingers. The desperate look on Merry's face made him quickly change his mind and wipe them on the napkin.

Merry let out a long breath and seemed to relax. 

"I _am_ sorry, Merry," Frodo whispered. "Perhaps you should close your eyes now." 

Frodo picked up the pickle and Merry's eyes widened as he gazed at the pickle, then back at Frodo's face.

At Merry's wild expression, Frodo leaned forward. "Close them, love. Trust me, he won't notice."

Merry's eyes widened even further. Frodo smiled indulgently and leaned back, bringing the pickle up to his mouth. Merry's eyes snapped shut just as Frodo wrapped his lips around the end of the pickle. 

There was a definite choking noise from behind the canvas. Frodo pulled the pickle free and look around with concern. 

"Are you quite all right there, Mister Bunce?"

A face that nearly matched the hair in hue peeked around the side of the canvas. "Indeed." Todo cleared his throat and coughed. "Fine. Fine." 

There was an equally strange noise from Merry -- something like a cross between a snort and a whimper, and when Frodo looked back, Merry's eyes were open again.

"Doesn't help," Merry whispered between clenched teeth. 

"It's all right, love. I just don't want to have you popping out of the chair and coming to help me eat this pickle." Frodo said quickly, in a normal tone. "Well, not _yet_ anyway. And not precisely _this_ pickle." 

Merry's eyebrows rose. " _Not helping_!" he hissed loudly. 

"Just try to stay put," Frodo whispered. "I will do my best to only torment the toff, and I apologize in advance for tormenting you as well, but you are going to have to endure it for just a bit longer so I can get us out of here quickly _with_ a painting for your grandda." 

Merry appeared to think about it for a while, oddly spending a good deal of the time gazing at Frodo's mouth. Then he nodded imperceptibly. 

Frodo couldn't fret about how this would impact Merry. Well, he could fret about it, but that would come later. Undoubtedly he would fret a great deal when Merry had him pinned to some heavy piece of furniture doing disgusting things to him with a pickle. 

Smiling at the thought, Frodo closed his eyes as he slid the pickle back into his mouth. The pickle was almost too big for him to manage that way and the image _that_ brought to mind nearly made Frodo groan himself. There was a slight noise of distress from Merry, but Frodo steeled himself to that and listened for something from the other side of the room. Everything was very quiet on the other side of the canvas. 

Shifting slightly and slipping down in his chair to get his breeches to loosen a bit in strategic places, Frodo slowly indulged in Izzy's very large spicy pickle making contented noises as he slid it in, took a dainty bite, then slid it further in, and took another bite. He heard a strangled sound from Todo's direction as the process went on for a while -- it was a rather large pickle. When he was nearly the end of it, he opened his eyes to check on his audience.

Although his eyes were shut once more, Merry's breathing was ragged enough to tell Frodo that his cousin's imagination was likely compensating for what he couldn't see. The most important thing was that, with just a quick casual glance, he could tell that Todo was gazing at him rather lasciviously and probably had been the entire time. 

Of course, very large pickles are a quite messy business, and Frodo was forced to lick his fingers once more, and the palms of his hands -- which had gotten rather sticky. The whole process was quite noisy and Frodo tried not to smile as a muscle in Merry's cheek twitched. Undoubtedly his cousin was grinding his teeth.

Once his hands were somewhat less sticky, Frodo slid further down in the chair and stretched out his legs languidly, resting his elbow on his stomach and cupping his chin to stare back at Todo questioningly. Todo suddenly appeared to realize that he had a brush in his hand and turned to look at the canvas blankly. Frodo almost laughed, the painter's expression was so comical. 

He looked back to find that Merry had opened his eyes once more. 

"You are not looking at your spot," came Todo's oddly strained voice.

Merry grimaced and lifted his chin. 

Frodo tried not to frown, chewing on his thumbnail thoughtfully as he studied Merry's pose. He shifted his hips to get comfortable, spreading his legs just slightly. Then he ran the side of his thumb across his bottom lip -- slowly -- back and forth, back and forth. Then he shifted his hips once more and looked at his thumbnail critically.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merry literally rolling his eyes, but the important thing was that Todo had gone back to staring.

There was a tap on the door and Todo yelped in surprise as everyone jumped. Todo retreated back behind the canvas and Frodo cursed the interruption, jumping to his feet and going to open the door to find Nad standing there with a small covered platter.

"The mistress realized she was remiss in sending up afters for you and the young Master, Mister Frodo. She sends this with her compliments. Just a little something she put together that the young Master enjoys a great deal."

"Why, thank you Nad. And thank your mistress for us. Lunch was delicious, as always. The pork was unbelievable."

Nad grinned widely. "She will be glad to hear it, young sir. We'll be up to clean up and bring tea a bit later. Everything is well?"

Frodo wondered if Izzy was worried for them or for Todo. He smiled. "Everything is quite fine, Nad. Thank you."

Nad made a quick bow and headed away as Frodo turned with the platter, shutting the door. He returned to his chair and realized that both Merry and Todo were watching him avidly. He held up the platter. "Afters. Something special for the young Master, apparently."

He uncovered the platter and Merry's eyes went wide. Frodo knew that it was Merry's favourite winter treat. Precious apples, only slightly grainy from careful storage, sliced thickly and served with a special caramel sauce. He met Merry's gaze and smiled -- probably a bit too enthusiastically because Merry suddenly looked worried. 

"If he remains still from the neck down, you still have plenty to work with, correct Mister Bunce?"

"Uh, well, yes. I suppose. But he mustn't move anything else below the neck, of course."

"Well, except certain parts that move of their own accord," Frodo whispered, winking at Merry. "You can talk you know." 

Frodo pulled the chair closer so that he could easily reach Merry without getting in the way of Todo's perspective. 

"You are mad aren't you? You are mad, and you are trying to drive me mad as well." Merry whispered fiercely. 

Frodo took a slice of apple and dipped it in the sauce, leaning forward to carefully place it in Merry's mouth. 

"Well, it _is_ a family trait. Mad Baggins and all." Frodo picked a slice and dipped it for himself, but instead of biting in or popping it into his mouth, he licked the caramel sauce off slowly, then popped it in to finish.

Merry was watching Frodo's tongue -- fascinated. "What are you _up_ to?"

"I am up for almost anything, love. You know that." Frodo said in a normal tone, then took a slice of apple and dipped it in the sauce, leaning forward to carefully place it in Merry's mouth. 

Merry sucked the apple slice in slowly and his eyes shut in delight. "Mmmm hmmm."

Dipping another slice, Frodo leaned forward and touched it to Merry's lips. As Merry's mouth opened, Frodo slid the slice across his lower lip before letting go. 

"I am going to--" Merry growled.

"What?" Frodo leaned forward. "Tie me up and paint caramel sauce on me?" he said loudly. 

Merry's eyes could not get any wider. Then they suddenly narrowed. Frodo could tell that very evil and delicious thoughts were speeding through his cousin's mind.

"Not before I have a nice long soak. I am filthy from the road." Frodo responded to his own question matter-of-factly, and loudly enough for the artist to overhear. "I couldn't let you lick caramel sauce off me until I wash off this dust."

Something very large fell behind the canvas. 

***  
TBC


	7. Chapter Six - Fresco

_Fresco: a method of painting on plaster, either dry (dry fresco or fresco secco) or wet (wet or true fresco); also, "fresh" as in "al fresco" -- in the fresh air_

Merry barely registered the sound. All Merry could think of was jumping up from the chair, shoving Frodo up against the nearest wall, and sinking into him -- road dust and all -- tasting the sweet heat of the caramel in his mouth and the salty spice of the pickle juice on his hands -- sucking those sticky fingers and licking those luscious lips and grinding those limber hips into the wall until Frodo screamed for release. 

"Whatever you see or hear -- don't move out of that chair," Frodo said quickly, thrusting the platter into Merry's hands and kissing him quite soundly on the mouth. 

With that, Frodo was up and across the room and Merry was left quivering on the chair. 

"Are you quite all right, Mister Bunce?" Frodo asked anxiously. 

Merry licked at the warm caramel on his lips, shuddered at the sensation, and looked blearily down at the sweet creamy sauce on the tray. He _would_ take it with him when they escaped from here -- along with one of the toff's brushes. And he _would_ paint Frodo with it, then nibble every bit of it off -- slowly -- with lots of teeth involved -- _lots_ of teeth.

"You took quite a tumble," Frodo exclaimed.

Merry put the tray carefully aside for later and leaned over quite far to his right, trying to see what was going on. Apparently the toff had fallen over back there. Merry hoped, briefly, that he had broken his arrogant neck. 

"Yes, I -- I tripped over this horrid rug. Ghastly thing. Threadbare, really." 

Merry frowned. It was one thing for his mother to complain that her own rugs were threadbare and in need of replacing, but for some poncy, high-handed--

"Let me help you up." 

Merry could see Frodo assisting the artist to his feet and brushing at his clothes helpfully -- brushing a bit too slowly in places that didn't need brushing, and taking a tad too long about the whole thing. 

"Are you-- Oh! My! It is _finished_ , isn't it? What a marvellous-- Oh, it is just-- You have captured him. It is sublime. Just perfect!" Frodo exclaimed.

Frowning, Merry leaned far over to his left. Frodo was standing back there staring at the portrait. _No one_ had seen the blasted thing yet. The toff wouldn't let anyone near it. Locked it up every night -- something about ruining the process or some nonsense. And now Frodo was standing there gazing at it. But finished? How could it be-- 

"Well, I--" 

"And you just finished it. Just now, didn't you? I had the feeling that you were just putting on the final touches when I saw it earlier. Of _course_ , you are a perfectionist." 

"Well, I--"

"Does this mean you might be available?" Frodo asked in a strange breathy voice.

"Available?"

"Yes, of course."

Todo sounded as if he was strangling, but Merry could hear him clearly. "You want _me_ \--"

"To paint _me_."

At that moment Merry had a distinct image of a naked Frodo covered, quite artistically, in paint. And the parts that _weren't_ painted-- He heard a whimper from Todo and had to agree.

"My portrait I mean. I would like to-- _pose_ for you." Frodo simpered.

The image of naked, paint-covered Frodo vanished and Merry thought briefly that he might be ill. He didn't know that Frodo _could_ simper! It was . . . well, disturbing, and decidedly _unnatural_. 

"Oh. Well, I--" the toff responded. "You would?"

"Absolutely. Do you think I would be a good subject for one of your portraits?" 

Merry found himself pondering that idea for a moment. Come to think of it, a portrait of Frodo would be splendid, but not one painted by the toff!

"Of course. Certainly. You-- you do have such a perfect ivory complexion. And your hair is so-- dark and silky, with those hints of red. And your eyes--"

Merry stood up. Bugger all! Was the poncy twit going to start talking smarmy love talk to Frodo as if he were some lass? Merry had to _see_ this. Perhaps _Frodo_ would knock his head clean into the Old Forest. 

"You flatter me!" 

Merry sat down again and looked desperately around for the wine. There was some left somewhere and he needed a glass-- or two or three. He spotted Frodo's glass on the floor and lunged for it. Then he saw the second bottle sticking out of Frodo's pack next to it and grabbed the pack as well. Frodo wouldn't need many clothes over the next few days, if Merry had his way, but there was undoubtedly a nice bottle of juniper scented oil tucked away in there somewhere. 

"Not at all. You are quite the lovely fellow." Todo responded. "Are you certain that I haven't painted you?"

"No, never. But it would be marvellous." Frodo exclaimed. "Of course, I assume we should wait until this commission is complete."

"Yes-- Well-- Yes, certainly. I mean-- well, it _is_ complete. No reason to wait. I was just about to tell you both. I will need to see to the framing in the morning and finalize things with Rorimac. I should be available tomorrow afternoon, if you would like to start then." 

"Really? That is just lovely! But, I don't want to rush you--"

"It would be my pleasure to-- to paint you." 

Now the _painter_ was simpering. Merry gagged and gulped down a substantial amount of the wine, looking about for the opened bottle. He found it on the table and poured the rest into his glass -- actually Frodo's glass -- taking another long swig as he watched Frodo make a mincing little bow. It was a wonder that Frodo didn't hold out his hand to be kissed by the toff. And he was likely batting his eyelashes again. 

"And my pleasure to sit for you," Frodo responded. 

Merry was just glad that Todo couldn't see _his_ face. He was torn between horrified fascination with at Frodo's performance, ecstatic joy that he was about to escape this musty prison, and total disgust that Frodo had to fawn over the poncy git to win his freedom.

"Then I will get my dear cousin and myself out of your way. Until tomorrow then," Frodo said. "Merry?"

Merry obediently pulled the pack over his shoulder, picked up the tray and his wine glass and headed for the door at a fast clip, head down, trying desperately not to laugh or gag or snort or anything else until he was out in the sun, in the fresh air, far away from this room and the overwhelming smell of paint.

He felt Frodo's hand on his elbow and then they were out into the hallway and Frodo was shutting the door firmly behind them. For one brief moment they stood there, then Frodo grabbed the wine glass and the tray, drank down the rest of the wine in one long gulp, set it down on the carpet next to the door, and tugged Merry toward the back stairs. They moved rapidly and silently as if escaping from some monstrous troll out of one of Bilbo's stories.

It took a while to sink in completely, but Merry realized, by about the second landing, that he didn't have to go back into that wretched parlour with that wretched twit ever again and that Frodo had somehow managed this marvel single-handedly and that his cousin was, indeed, the most kissable creature in the four Farthings -- likely in the world. Merry skidded to a stop and Frodo nearly up-ended the tray, caramel sauce and all. 

"What're you--"

Merry grabbed Frodo's face in his hands and leaned in to kiss him hard and thoroughly. The hall's best red, a sweet touch of caramel, just a hint of spice from the pickle, and -- under all of that -- that hot, rich taste that was Frodo. Merry buried himself in that taste and Frodo responded with enthusiasm -- or as much enthusiasm as a tray pressed into your stomach would allow. Merry's mission was to get every part of Frodo pressed up against every part of him and the tray was a mere minor impediment -- until Frodo pushed it gently against his stomach.

"I am quite interested in that proposal, but I would like to be somewhere besides the back stairs if you don't mind. Preferably somewhere with some hot water in large quantities." 

Frodo leaned forward to flick his tongue against Merry's lips, a promise of things to come, Merry hoped. 

"And I think you could do with just a bit of fresh air first. Yes?"

Merry licked his lips and nodded. 

Frodo peered at him, those two little wrinkles appearing between his eyebrows again. But he didn't say anything, he just took Merry's elbow and turned him down the stairs. 

Finally Frodo stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and pulled the pack off of Merry's back, setting it on the stairs. "I hate to keep ordering you about, love, but until you get your bearings back." His fingers brushed Merry's temple lightly. "Just stand here for a moment."

Merry nodded, mystified, as Frodo took the tray and slipped through the door into the noisy kitchens beyond. 

Mouth-watering scents wafted out that door and Merry was pleased to find that he could really smell something besides that cloying smell of paint -- the stuff just must have coated the inside of his nose. 

Then he wondered what Frodo meant about him 'getting his bearings back.' Was he really acting _that_ addled? He rubbed at his eyes wearily. Well, perhaps he was. Frodo couldn't know how difficult things had become around the Hall of late, even before this ridiculous situation over the portrait. 

"Yes, absolutely. A _full_ grass and not musty-smelling carpet. And sun on his face -- not hot, not even really warm, but _sun_ unfiltered by glass, unhazed by paint fumes. It was glorious. He stumbled to a halt and took a deep cleansing breath. Wonderful. He was smiling stupidly into the sun when he realized that Frodo was standing there looking at him somewhat anxiously. 

"Want to sit for a while?" Frodo gestured toward one of the benches scattered around the yard.

"I really am fine." Merry protested. "It has been -- " he suddenly found all the emotions that had been building and boiling for the last few months a bit too close to the surface for comfort. "I'm just glad you're here."

"Come on then and sit down." Frodo was guiding him toward the nearest bench and Merry followed, sinking down gratefully in the sunlight. 

For a while they just sat there on the bench in the sun, breathing quietly, their breath fogging the air -- in and out, in and out. There was very little sound in the winter landscape -- workers in the vineyard, a pony's soft whinny from the barn, and a dead fall in the distant forest

"You know, your portrait _is_ quite lovely -- truth be told." Frodo said softly after a while. "But that Todo _is_ unbearable. Always has been."

"Thank you for rescuing me."

"I suspect rather that I rescued _him_." Frodo responded. "Although I am at a bit of a loss as to how he survived _you_ for so long, cousin. Are you quite well?" 

Merry felt something tighten behind his eyes and reached up to rub them. 

But Frodo's fingers were there before his, gently massaging Merry's forehead, rubbing carefully at his temples, digging into his nape. "Relax, love. What has gotten you so wound up?" 

The fingers slid down Merry's neck to knead at his shoulders. 

"It's a long story," Merry responded, turning his back to oblige as Frodo's fingers dug into his neck. He was practically purring like one of the barn cats, but it felt so wonderful he was beyond caring.

"Yes, well." Frodo said softly next to his ear. "Perhaps you can be persuaded to share it." 

Merry shivered as Frodo's lips touched his ear and then just below it.

"Depends on the p-- persuasion," Merry managed, losing track when Frodo's lips touched the nape of his neck.

"Is a long hot bath in your room sufficient?" Frodo asked softly.

"If the tub is big enough for two."

There was a long silence before Frodo responded.

"Good answer."

***  
TBC


	8. Chapter Seven - Chiaroscuro

_Chiaroscuro: a bold contrast between light and dark_

Frodo put his pack down just inside the door of Merry's room and made sure the door was locked and bolted. There were far too many master keys about in Brandy Hall -- as he knew from experience. He hunkered down and fished around in the pack for two bottles -- one, a lovely bottle of Brandy Hall's best red, and one, an equally lovely bottle of his favourite scented oil. 

The room was perfect -- Izzy, as always, had come through once more. He did owe her many favours this visit, although dear Izzy never expected anything but a mild snog and an outrageous bit of gossip beside the kitchen fire. The curtains and shutters were wide open and sunshine streamed into the room. A fire burned merrily in the grate. An extra large tub sat steaming before it, with fluffy towels hanging from a rack nearby and extra coppers on as well. He walked over quickly, pulling the cork loose as he walked, and placed the oil next to a basket of scented soaps and a pitcher. Then he looked about carefully and spotted the food, tucked away on a side table. He went and swiftly inserted the wine in the prepared cooler. All was as requested. 

Merry was standing in the sunlight gazing at the tub when Frodo walked back across the room. "She is in love with you, you know," he said in a quiet voice.

"She?" Frodo started to pull off his jacket as Merry turned around to face him. 

"Isabella Fleam. Has loved you since I can remember."

"Izzy? Well, I love her t--"

Dust motes danced in the nimbus of sunlight around Merry's hair -- glowing like some ancient crown. He always stood so straight and tall, as if he was wearing armour, but the burgundy suit coat and velvet breeches literally glowed -- for a moment the waistcoat, with it's delicate gold stitch work, seemed to be made of mail. Frodo blinked. The painting was lovely, but the reality was absolutely stunning. 

"--too," he finally managed. "You are just -- breathtaking in that suit, cousin."

Merry looked down at himself, then slowly raised his head, a knowing smile on his face. "So, you prefer me in the suit rather than out of it?" 

That timbre in Merry's voice and the smouldering look in his eyes had Frodo shaking his head slowly before he realized what he was doing. "Definitely out of it."

"And are _you_ planning on bathing in your travelling clothes?" Merry asked as he slowly walked toward him.

Frodo realized he had to act quickly or he and Merry would end up either up against a wall or in the tub and the lovely suit would end up much the worse for wear. 

"No, but I was hoping to watch you take off that quite handsome outfit for me, while you were standing there in the sunlight. I need to remind myself that the hobbit beneath those clothes is even more handsome -- without them."

That stopped Merry in his tracks, then his eyes narrowed and his mouth quirked. "You know," he said, taking one step backward. "I noticed when you were back there seducing the toff that you have quite the clever tongue. And here you are trying to use it on _me_." He shook his head as he stepped back into the sunlight, shrugging out of his jacket.

Frodo tilted his head and looked at Merry from under his lashes. "If I were using my tongue on you, cousin, you would have no doubt of how _very_ clever it is." 

Merry's eyes darkened and he stopped with the jacket half off. "Shall we have a contest later then, to see whose tongue is more _clever_?" he continued with a challenging glare, tossing the jacket at Frodo, who caught it and hung it over a chair back. 

"I do believe that is the plan for the afternoon," Frodo quipped, then shrugged off his own jacket and hung it as well. "Immediately followed by the contest as to who makes the most seductive sounds."

Reflections from the gold stitching in the waistcoat sparkled and danced in the sun as Merry undid the stiff new fastenings with his head bent and light glinting off his hair. "Well, I think that should be a contest as to who shrieks like a lass, because there is seduction and then there is just racket."

Frodo grimaced at his cousin as Merry glanced up from his task and smirked at him. But when Frodo managed to undo his waistcoat without looking and pull it off before Merry could finish, Merry frowned blackly. Frodo undid his cuffs and started on the shirt buttons.

Merry shrugged out of the waistcoat and tossed it at Frodo's head. He grabbed it easily, giving Merry a triumphant look as he hung it over his own, then swiftly finished unbuttoning his shirt. 

"Well, yes, I suppose we should also have a contest for managing to remain on the bed as well, since that seems to be a difficult skill to master."

Merry's face coloured before he ducked his head to focus on his shirt cuffs. Twice at Yule Merry had somehow ended up on the floor. Frodo actually felt quite guilty about it, but he hadn't exactly been in control of the situation at the time. 

"Then there is the one about who ties the best knots," Merry growled as he struggled with the stiff new buttons. 

Frodo pulled his braces off his shoulders. "Absolutely. No doubt who is the frontrunner in _that_ contest. But I do believe that someone owes _someone_ a new nightshirt." 

That won him a quick grin that Merry tried to hide. "That thing was already in tatters and you know it."

"And your shirt will be soon if you keep that up. Can I help?" Frodo walked toward him and Merry reluctantly stuck out one arm. 

"These are _impossible_ to button or unbutton with one hand." 

"They will get looser. No worries." Frodo worked with the button. "Beautiful needlework on this -- Moresby?"

"Yes. And mother has ordered me not to grow out of it."

"Well, it _is_ quite the investment." Frodo moved to the other cuff. "For the parties, I assume?"

Merry nodded. "But the breeches are a bit too tight for dancing _or_ eating, if you ask me."

Frodo finished the cuff and stepped back, looking down pointedly and with admiration, then raising his eyes to Merry's as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. 

"I wouldn't say too tight at all," Frodo said softly. "Makes some contests a tad easier when everyone knows the winner without the need to disrobe."

It was telling that Merry didn't blush at all over that one. Frodo raised his eyebrows in approval. There was a time not long ago when that comment would have brought a bright blush right down to Merry's toes.

"Well--" Merry pulled his braces off his shoulders. "My cousin has told me, ever since I was a faunt who only came up to his kneecaps, that it was not size that mattered so much as sense -- I think that applies here as well."

Frodo's mouth dropped open at that.

Merry grinned. "Yes, I remember that. I remember a lot of things you taught me, Frodo," he said as he shrugged out of his shirt and dropped it. The grin faded into something softer. "I always will, you know."

Even in the deep of winter, Merry was golden and touched with sun. Faded tan lines on skin darkened by hours in the summer fields, sun-bleached highlights still glimmering in deep gold hair, and a harvest sky at dusk in those eyes. The winter sunlight slanting in the window was weak by comparison.

Managing to close his mouth, Frodo still felt as if he had been pole-axed. Merry certainly couldn't miss the desire simmering in Frodo's eyes as Merry unbuttoned his breeches and untied his small clothes, hooking his thumbs into the waist and tugging downwards, kicking everything aside.

Frodo licked his lips as his gaze slid downward admiringly. Appropriate that the hair became a more burnished, deeper gold the further down it went. 

"I believe I won the undressing part of the contest," Merry said in a gruff voice.

Frodo realized he was still partially in his shirt and breeches, but he didn't stop admiring Merry as he shrugged out of his shirt and finished undoing his breeches and small clothes, letting them fall. "Indeed you did, in more ways than one, cousin."

He was completely aware of Merry's heated gaze raking him head to toe -- and parts of him were slightly more aware than others. 

"Now for the next part of the contest." He took off for the tub at a fast clip. "Who gets in the tub first," he laughed over his shoulder as he stepped in. Luckily the temperature was perfect, perhaps just a tad hot. He sank down with a relieved groan just as Merry loomed over him.

"Here in front of me." Frodo said quickly, pointing in front of him, spreading his knees. "I promised you a good backrub I believe." 

"So, you win the getting in the tub first contest." Merry conceded, grinning, then stepped in with his back to Frodo. "Whoa. It's hot." He lifted one foot and then the other in an odd dance.

Frodo reached up and smacked a convenient cheek. "Wimp." 

Merry looked back over his shoulder. "We have already established that I win in the area of size. I _can_ sit on you."

Frodo looked down, pointedly, then looked up slyly. "Yes indeed you can," he leered.

"Oh, you are hopeless." Merry sat down gingerly. "Ouch! Ouch ouch ouch. I am not a parsnip to be boiled you know."

"With the proper condiments, you will taste just fine, boiled or baked or simmered in a stew." Frodo reached over the side and retrieved a flannel and a piece of soap, smelling it quickly to make sure it wasn't something sweet or flowery. 

"Wash my hair? Please? I think the paint smell has sunk into my skull." 

"Certainly. Anything to be of service." 

Merry slid forward and dipped his head back, sinking below the surface and wiping the water out of his face as he rose back up. Frodo took some of the soft soap in his hands and worked it into Merry's hair thoroughly, massaging Merry's scalp slowly with his fingers as he did. Merry groaned appreciatively and closed his eyes, leaning back into Frodo's ministering fingers. 

"Rinse." 

Merry obligingly dipped his head once more as Frodo soaped up a flannel. 

"Lean back on me." Merry slid back until his head was almost on Frodo's shoulder. "That's it." Frodo took Merry's left hand and began washing his way up his arm. "Now, what is going on around here that would make my stubborn cousin put up with a toff like Todo Bunce for -- how long now?"

"Weeks," Merry muttered.

"Weeks." Frodo finished the left arm and reached for the right. "And why is he still alive?" 

"It's complicated."

"I assume that. Since you have such a _sizable_ \-- body we have plenty of time here."

Merry smiled and his eyes opened to gaze up at Frodo. "I love you, you know."

Frodo leaned over and kissed Merry rather thoroughly. When he finished, Merry was looking a bit distracted from the issue at hand. 

"Now, _why_ is Todo still alive?" Frodo prompted. 

***  
TBC


	9. Chapter Eight - Gouache

_Gouache: a type of paint consisting of pigment suspended in water; also, "water paint" and "splash"_

"Well, it goes back to mother and-- Actually da started it all." Merry let his right arm go limp and pliable in Frodo's hands. "He got it in his head that he should be doing the accounts."

Merry watched as Frodo rolled his eyes and grimaced. Everyone knew that Saradoc's real strength was in the vineyard and the cellars -- even in the fields. He was not as good with the ponies as Merry's Grandfather Rorimac had been in his day, before the accident, but he was decent. But with the bookkeeping -- his father was an unmitigated disaster. And he was even worse at doing any actual business with the customers. 

"I am assuming this leads to our favourite artist somehow." Frodo moved his attentions to Merry's chest and stomach. "So where and why did Uncle Sara get this idea?"

"Grandda, of course." Merry responded. "There were some problems with a customer that he found -- a new inn close to the Bridge of Stonebows. They weren't paying properly and mother cut them off after it happened three times. What with the harvest problems the last two years and-- well, we have barely enough outside of the Hall's needs for even the dependable paying customers. She had given them the benefit of the doubt because they were just starting up, but we can't afford to carry them for too long these days. Perhaps in a better year--"

"Lean forward and let me get your back." Frodo said in a quiet voice. "So, what does that have to do with you?"

"Everything." Merry sat up, wrapping his arms around his legs and leaning forward. "Ngggh," he grunted as Frodo dug his fingers into tense muscles as he scrubbed. 

"Sorry, love."

Merry found himself clenching and unclenching his jaw and tried hard to relax. "Mother wants me to do the accounts so I will understand what da does not, and never will understand. And da-- well, grandda pushed him and pushed him. You know how grandda gets sometimes." Merry buried his face in his knees. "He's frustrated that he can't do it all any more and-- well, you know how disappointed he is that mother is handling so many things herself."

"Uncle Rory expects a great deal of everyone and he can be a bit of an arse about it at times, but he does respect and admire your mother. I know that." Frodo handed him the flannel and soap. Here, wash your legs and feet. So, Uncle Sara--"

"Drank a bit too much inventory and got into the books. Made a complete hash of things." Merry scrubbed unenthusiastically at one leg. "I was in there helping her clean things up, when he came back in. Had mother in tears about-- well, about almost anything you can think of from the past, present, and future." 

Including a lot of things that Merry didn't want to hear about himself, about the other babes that were never born, about Frodo. He could tell by the sounds behind him that Frodo was making quick use of the opportunity to wash his own hair and scrub himself clean of the dust of the road, but he was listening. "And?"

"And then grandda roared in. Then everyone was yelling about pretty much everything." He moved around a bit as he ran the cloth over his legs, just so he could see Frodo's face. "At one point mother even threatened to take me and go to Great Smials."

Frodo, scrubbing away under his arms with the flannel, stopped. "She-- what?"

Merry felt his heart start pounding, just like it had that day. His throat tightened. "I know. She has never said anything like that before." He stared at the side of the tub but saw his mother's face -- rigid and drained of colour -- and his father's -- florid and furious. "Then da said he was the Master of the Hall and she could just go back to Great Smials for all he cared, but as the future Master _I_ would have to stay with him. Then grandda said that he was still the Master and they could _both_ go for all he cared, and as the future Master, _I_ would have to stay with him." He realized that he was just blurting things out breathlessly and stopped, breathing hard. 

"I was ready to leave them there, shouting at each other like that. They wouldn't have noticed. I was going to pack everything and head for Hobbiton--" 

"But you didn't." Frodo said softly.

"No. But I did think about it. I was-- I just am so tired of it all." Merry closed his eyes. "I just waited until they all got quiet and then I told them _they_ could all leave and I would run the Hall."

Merry heard an odd noise from behind him that sounded a bit like a snort.

"That is just-- perfect." 

He must be mistaken. He turned his head to look back at Frodo.

"Are you _mad_?" Then he realized what he had just said when Frodo grinned at him and finished soaping up his chest. "Oh, yes, I forgot. You _are_ mad. Absolutely. Bollocking. Mad."

Frodo snorted, and as if to prove Merry's point, slid forward, wrapping slick legs firmly around Merry and disappearing under the water. 

Merry ignored him and finished scrubbing his other leg -- or rather tried to ignore him. There were bits bumping rather firmly against his backside that he could not, in all good conscience, ignore, especially when Frodo was using him as leverage to emerge from the water sputtering and splashing behind him.

"No, I meant--" Frodo sounded a bit watery until he ran his hand over his face and pushed his hair back. "I meant that was a perfect response. Seriously. It was just what they needed to hear at that moment. Each one of them." 

Merry turned and looked at him -- no, more glared at him. Frodo ignored him reached over the edge of the tub and retrieved the bottle of oil, letting the cork drop to the floor. He poured a small amount into his hand and returned the bottle carefully to the floor. 

"Trust me, it was." Frodo rubbed his hands together. "Now, turn about and rinse off well. It's time for that massage I promised."

Merry grunted and slid forward once more, dipping under the water to rinse off and leveraging himself up, dripping and wet. At last he could smell something besides the cloying smell of paint. He smelled Frodo all around him -- and juniper berries.

"Here, you need a bit to tame that hair." Frodo put a hand on the nape of Merry's neck, rubbing as he did, and raked his other hand back through Merry's hair. "So, what happened next then?"

"Well," Merry tried to think. It seemed to him that things had just been horrid for him since. 

He heard splashing behind him as Frodo shifted around and then hands slick with oil were on his neck, strong thumbs pushing up into his hair.

"Ow."

"Sorry love. A bit sore there?"

Merry nodded, leaning into that marvellous touch and closing his eyes as the fingers kneaded and rubbed at his neck.

"You've been tied up in knots ever since this thing happened then?"

" _They've_ had me tied up. Mother wants me in the office all the time with the books, until I think I am made out of parchment and ink." He held his right hand back for inspection. "You can see that my fingers are beginning to look like yours -- and Uncle Bilbo's." 

"Lovely stains. And your da?"

There hadn't been a dramatic change in his father, but there was a change. 

Patient fingers worked on his shoulders, digging in, working out the stiffness there that had plagued him for days. He hadn't realized how very tense he was, until Frodo had touched him.

"Merry?"

"Well, him too. But, it is different with da. He has been more clear-eyed than usual of late. And he's asked me to come to the cellars during racking and topping off so that he can show me things." Merry smiled, remembering the look of pride on his father's face when he could identify the barrel maker for one of the wines he tasted and he could tell what had gone wrong with the other bottle. 

"So, he is treating you a bit more like the future Master of the Hall and less like a rival?"

"Mmmm hmmm." Merry agreed, then he realized he didn't quite understand what Frodo had just said and raised his head. "What?"

"You told me at Yule that there were times when you thought your da saw you as a rival -- and it was almost as if he was trying to prove that you _weren't_ up to the task. Remember?"

"Yes, well-- yes. And then I'm just-- there are times when I think he's given up, Frodo. It is like he realizes he won't ever be what they want. So he is suddenly trying to make _me_ be what they want. He'll change back soon enough. Nothing ever lasts with da." Frodo's slick fingers dug in to his spine and he slumped forward once more, groaning. "That feels wonderful." 

"What about your grandda then?"

"Well, he is the worst of the lot, really. I mean, before I really was just a faunt to him, now, suddenly," he switched to his grandfather's gruff voice. "I am the future Master of the Hall, and I need to behave like one."

Frodo snorted again. "Good imitation."

"I have been hearing-- ow!" 

"Oops. Tender there?" Frodo slid oily fingers over the spot and kneaded a bit less firmly.

"Mmmmmm hmmmm." Merry stretched his spine luxuriously then settled back. "I have been hearing grandda's voice a lot lately. Sometimes he just repeats lessons I have already had from mother or da. Sometimes it's new things -- like ideas about those whites that Milo Burrows started a while back."

"I had a taste of his first vintage, actually. Not too bad," Frodo remarked. "A bit dry for me though. But where does Todo figure in to all this?"

"I am getting to that." Merry only realized that he had growled when Frodo's fingers stilled on his back. 

"I'm sorry love. I interrupted." The fingers resumed walking down his spine.

"No, I-- I'm sorry. I just-- Well, it's just that grandda-- well, he-- he seems to want me to skip right past being a tween to being of age -- like this portrait. You and I both know the tradition is for Brandybucks to have a sitting _after_ they reach majority. But _no_ , not Meriadoc Brandybuck. Grandda insists that I have to get mine made _now_. And then there is the toff, who insists on belittling and baiting me at every turn and acting like some great peacock."

"Todo was much the same when he was younger. Still quite the prodigy, but always a peacock and an insufferable snob on top of it all."

"You-- uh-- mmmmmm." Frodo's fingers were low on his back now and felt absolutely exquisite. "You kn-- knew him before?"

"Well, 'knew' is the wrong word. I was quite young at the time. Around Pippin's age I think. Uncle Mac was getting his portrait done and I snuck in to watch." Frodo admitted. "I was always trailing around after Uncle Mac at that age, hoping for a story about his boat and his trips down the river." 

Frodo ran his thumbs back down Merry's spine then swept his fingers back up his ribs and Merry shivered. "So, why _is_ Todo still alive?" Frodo repeated, patiently.

"Grandda threatened to send me to Budgeford before the celebration if I didn't cooperate with the portrait painting. And he knew I was looking forward to your visit. He even said he would see to it that you couldn't see me while I was there either -- that I didn't have time for tweening, the way things are around here."

Merry only realized that everything Frodo had worked so hard to loosen was tightening up again when Frodo cleared his throat and worked his way back up to Merry's shoulders once more. 

"And that-- that poncy artist treated me like a faunt because he knew he could. He _knew_ they wouldn't listen to me. He was taunting me -- treating me like-- well, treating me like something he stepped in. And he was doing it on purpose. Just so he could stay on at the Hall. I _know_ he was. But grandda wouldn't hear of it, and I couldn't tell mother, and da -- well, you know. They weren't going to let me see _you_ if I didn't cooperate with all their plans." 

The fingers on his shoulders tightened just a bit, but Frodo didn't say anything. 

Merry twisted around to face Frodo. "You see? They don't really talk to each other any more, but they all talk to me -- no, they talk _at_ me, order me around. They act like they own me. It is like I am a-- a thing and not a hobbit. To them, I'm the future Master of the Hall. But they won't let me just be _me_ \--" He was poking at his own chest angrily when he realized that his voice was gruff with tears. "Just me. Just Merry."

***  
TBC


	10. Chapter Nine - Frottage

_Frottage: the technique of rubbing with crayon or graphite on a piece of paper which has been placed over an object, or an image achieved in this way; also, "rubbing"_

"You're not _just_ anything, Merry." Frodo said firmly, trying to control the anger curling in his belly and keep it from his expression. "Well, actually, you are _just_ barely passable at Merels and you are _just_ terrible at--" 

Merry's hand lifted up to touch Frodo's lips. "Frodo, I know _you_ see me."

Frodo grasped the fingers resting against his lips and kissed them. "Merry, you just sat here and told me what they were doing to you -- that they were pushing you to be the Master long before you need to be, long before you want to be -- all because of their own tangle of reasons that have _nothing_ to do with you -- that they are making you miss all the joy and wisdom that comes from _just_ being a tween." He pushed dripping hair away from Merry's face. "Did you tell _them_?"

Merry shook his head. "I told you -- grandda keeps --"

"Merry. Did you _tell_ them?"

"They-- I thought they would keep me away from you." 

Frodo took Merry's face in his hands. "Merry, they cannot keep _me_ from _you_. You know that don't you, love?"

"I--" Merry gazed at him, his eyes narrowing. "They respect you now. They think of you and treat you as an adult. Me--" He stopped and shrugged.

"And expecting you to suddenly be the Master of the Hall isn't treating _you_ as if you were an adult?" Frodo growled, then realized what he was doing and took a deep breath. "I am not saying what they are doing is right, but if they are going to do it, take advantage of it -- a bit. Turn around and tell them how what they are doing makes you feel. If you are worthy of running the Hall, you are worth listening to as well." 

There was a long silence and Frodo realized that Merry's gaze was thoughtful and unfocused as he stared at the wall behind Frodo, his jaw working feverishly. Frodo stood up and let the water sluice off of him. "Just stew there for a bit, my parsnip. I will be right back."

Grabbing a towel, Frodo rapidly dried off, tying the towel around his waist as he headed for the windows. With the winter sunlight dwindling swiftly, the air in the room was cooling a bit too fast, and he needed to let his own temper cool a bit before he attempted, once more, to unwind the knots that Merry had himself wound up in. Closing the shutters and the drapes, he had to work not to slam or shove anything in his frustration with his Uncle Sara and Aunt Esmeralda _and_ his Uncle Rory. Todo's mincing antics were almost feeble compared to the immature manoeuvrings of the Brandybuck scions at their worst.

Merry _would_ make a magnificent Master some day, if the current denizens of the Hall didn't _ruin_ him for it, and for everything else while they were at it. They didn't even _deserve_ the kind of Master that Merry would make. He lit the lamps and candles rapidly, then went to the sideboard. There was the caramel sauce, as promised, over a warming lamp. And the wine. And cheese and bread and apples and pickles -- magnificent, large pickles -- and butter and preserves. He took a deep breath and poured two glasses of that glorious wine, taking them over to the fireplace and setting them aside carefully, glad that his hands were rock steady as he did so. 

He glanced over at Merry, who hadn't moved and seemed to be contemplating whether or not one could successfully drown oneself in a tub. Moving the screen, Frodo put two more logs on the fire to chase off the chill, then got up and went to Merry's trunk, opening it and digging down until he found what he was looking for -- the old ragged quilts that had served many uses, not the least of which was helping intrepid hobbit travellers hide from the dragons in the family parlour -- little did they know then that sometimes there really _were_ dragons in the family parlour. 

A telling gleam from under damp bangs told Frodo that Merry was watching him as he unfolded the quilts in front of the fire and held out a towel with a dramatic flourish. 

"I believe that you are quite thoroughly cooked through, my parsnip, and we need to move to step two in the recipe, which is the-- kneading with oil."

Merry's eyebrows rose sceptically as he raised his head and cocked it slightly sideways. " _Kneading_ parsnips?"

Frodo nodded seriously. "Old Baggins family recipe. Much better than mashing."

He was rewarded with a quirk of Merry's lips. "I shall have to tell Izzy about this one."

Waggling his eyebrows in true Baggins' fashion, Frodo said quickly, "Ah, but she already _knows_."

Merry snorted and stood up, and Frodo took a long look as water sheeted over oiled, heat-flushed skin and harvest-hardened muscle. Grabbing the towel, Merry ignored his cousin's appreciative glance and dried off quickly as he stepped out and looked down at the quilts, starting to tie the towel at his waist.

Frodo motioned to the quilts. "No towel."

Crossing his arms, Merry stared at Frodo's towel pointedly. 

"Perverted vegetable." Frodo pulled off the towel and flung it aside, putting his hands on his hips and looking at the quilts.

Still looking sceptical, Merry watched as Frodo knelt down and picked up two glasses of wine, holding one out to him. He finally dropped his towel and knelt as well, reaching out to take the glass. 

"To a well-kneaded, and well-oiled parsnip," Frodo toasted.

"To an absolutely buggering-mad Baggins," Merry responded.

Frodo noticed that at least Merry was smiling as he took a long slow drink of the wine and started to set down his glass. "One more for good measure. I don't plan to let you up for a while." 

As Frodo watched over the edge of his glass, Merry rolled his eyes and took another drink. He gestured to the quilts. "Face down, if you please -- parsnip -- sir."

Merry stretched out on the quilts, put his glass within reach, and folded his arms under his head, looking back at Frodo cautiously before he buried his face in his arms.

Frodo knelt beside Merry's feet and took up the bottle of oil, pouring some into his hands and rubbing them briskly, then he picked up Merry's right foot. Merry's leg stiffened. 

"You have been cooked. Be limp like a nice boiled parsnip." Frodo shook Merry's leg for emphasis. 

There was a muffled sound from Merry, but his leg relaxed somewhat and Frodo commenced to push his fingers through curly gold hair and knead the tough bottom of Merry's foot and the base of each toe with his thumbs.

"Ow--ow--ow--uhn--umm--mmm"

Frodo smiled. "What was that again?"

"Mmmmmm."

"That's what I thought."

Frodo remained silent for a while, focusing on his task as he finished with Merry's right foot and moved to his left, then on up to his calves. Except for an enthusiastic groan now and again, and a couple of sighs, Merry was quiet and malleable under his hands. 

"Wh--where did you learn this?" Merry asked, his voice heavy and slow.

"The parsnip speaks." Frodo leaned over to pick up his wine glass and take a quick sip, shaking and flexing his fingers as he did. Then he poured a bit more oil into his hand. "Do you remember the Widow Rumble in Hobbiton?"

"You learned _this_ from that ancient--"

"And very talented healer who saved my life," Frodo finished firmly. "Yes, I did."

" _Very_ talented, I'll say," Merry muttered.

Frodo levered himself over Merry's legs and moved his attentions further up, trying not to dwell on how very well-formed those thighs were, just stroking slowly up and back down the sides, then up onto Merry's very nicely muscled buttocks and back down, kneading as hard as he dared.

"She didn't rub on _your_ bum, did she?" Merry asked in a very serious tone.

Frodo smacked the object in question. "No."

"Good thing." Merry responded. "You have an ugly--"

Frodo dug his thumbs in at Merry's hipbones.

"Ow."

"You, on the other hand, have a decidedly lovely arse, Merry," Frodo smiled wickedly as he ran his fingers softly up the smooth golden cheeks and trailed them down the shadowy crevice between. 

Merry gasped and the muscles in his back rippled and flexed.

"Along with many other things about you that are equally magnificent." Frodo poured the oil into his hands and waited for it to warm. "Put your arms down here for me, love."

Mumbling something undoubtedly derogatory under his breath, Merry shifted, moving his arms, palms up, to his sides. Frodo slowly slid further up, some parts of him highly pleased with the results. When he moved about just a bit to get things in an even _more_ comfortable place, Merry sighed, "I like this p--position." 

"So do I," Frodo whispered as he leaned forward and pressed the heels of his hands up Merry's spine, sliding up to the base of his neck, curling his fingers around to knead the tense muscles there and pulling back over Merry's broad shoulders and down his arms firmly, right out the tips of Merry's fingers. 

"Nnnnnngh."

Frodo smiled and slowly pressed forward, up, around, pull, down. 

"Nnnnnnn."

Up, around, pull, down.

"Gggggh."

Up, around, pull, down.

"Mmmm."

Up, around, pull, down.

A huff of air.

Up, around, pull, down.

Silence. 

Frodo sank willingly into the sheer repetitiveness of the effort, relishing the heat of the fire, the warmth of the wine in his belly, the silky slide and tug of Merry's skin beneath him, and the slow simmer of arousal beneath it all. Merry was breathing deeply and slowly now, keeping an unknowing rhythm with Frodo's strokes. When Frodo finally slowed to a stop and rolled his shoulders, shaking out his arms and his hands to loosen them, Merry continued breathing deeply and sonorously -- sound asleep.

Managing to carefully roll back onto his toes and stand without waking his cousin, Frodo stretched to ease out the kinks in his back, then turned to sit down on the quilt, leaning against the side of the tub and picking up his glass as he gazed at Merry.

Firelight danced and flickered over skin polished to a burnished gold and hair that had dried in complete disarray, curling and frizzing around features that had always fascinated Frodo with their changeability. Generous lips were open and lax -- teeth no longer grinding, jaw no longer working furiously. Frodo leaned forward. At times like these, with the light of the fire wavering and shimmering over his face, Merry could look so very fae -- so much a Took. Frodo wanted to reach out his fingers and trace the so slight up-tilt of that nose. Even the curve of Merry's chin, from this angle, seemed more fine than square. 

Frodo smiled softly to himself, feeling as if some wild beautiful creature that he had barely tamed to his touch now lay softly panting and quiet at his feet. He was certain that no portrait would ever capture this particular perspective.

"The future Master of Brandy Hall," he whispered, raising his glass. 

***  
TBC


	11. Chapter Ten - Sfumato

_Sfumato: the technique of blurring or softening sharp outlines by subtle and gradual blending (feathering) of one tone into another; also, "vanished in smoke"_

Warm and rapturously comfortable. He hadn't felt this way since -- well, since Yule. His muscles felt sore, in a deliciously used way. But, something wasn't _quite_ right. The parts of him that _should_ feel slightly sore and deliciously used by this point did not -- in fact they felt quite neglected and needy. Likely because he, being a git, had fallen _asleep_ right in the middle of Frodo's remarkable massage. He opened his eyes warily, hoping Frodo hadn't gone off in a huff -- and caught his breath at the sight before him.

Frodo was stretched out next to him on the quilts -- apparently dozing in the heat of the fire. He lay on his side -- one arm curled under his head, the other resting on the knee that was pulled up in front of him. Merry rolled back and propped his head on his hand, gazing at his cousin's still form with admiration. Beautiful was not the right word -- it was too feminine a word for the angular flare of Frodo's chest, the firm curve of muscle in his calves and upper arms, the powerful flex of his thighs -- but there was something that brought that word to mind -- something about the translucent shimmer of Frodo's skin contrasting with the unruly tumble of dark curls, something about the overly lush mouth and generous fringe of lashes, something about the delicate ear tips that blushed when Frodo was aroused -- were suddenly blushing now as Frodo woke and caught Merry gazing at him hungrily. 

Merry shouldn't have forgotten about the fathomless blue eyes that were so very easy to fall into, or about how those slender, hot fingers felt skating along his cheek. When a thumb still fragrant with oil caressed his lip, he shut his eyes and sank into a long devouring kiss that tasted of wine and caramel and went on and on, leaving him fulfilled and gasping with need at the same time. Perhaps beautiful was the right word for it all. But it just didn't seem to be enough of a word to describe a smoky voice that could make him painfully hard just saying his name, much less breathing out-- 

"I haven't finished you yet."

Merry wanted desperately to say something witty and pointed in response, but he couldn't find his voice, unable to breathe as Frodo pressed him back onto the quilts with an intense look that told him not to move and another probing kiss that made him shudder. Merry flung his hands above his head and tried to relax, but some parts of him moved rather dramatically when Frodo reached for the bottle of oil once more and knelt between his ankles. 

Closing his eyes, Merry could feel the entire surface of his skin quivering. At the first silky touch of Frodo's fingers on his ankles, he had to grab handfuls of quilt. Then his back arched off the floor at the first firm sweep of fingers up his calves. Finish was a good word. At this rate he would finish if Frodo just breathed on him. But Frodo's touch was firm as he stroked up each side of Merry's leg, then on to the top of his thighs, sweeping back down again, kneading just hard enough at hidden knots of pain in Merry's muscles to keep absolute bliss dancing just out of his reach. Despite the rapid thrum of arousal beneath his skin, Merry found his breathing gradually slowing to match Frodo's rhythmic stroke -- up and back, up and back. 

When Frodo's thighs pressed under his, lifting Merry's legs and bending his knees, he shifted and grimaced at the odd position, feeling as if his hips were tilted up at an odd angle and he was dangling off of Frodo's lap -- then slick fingers dug and kneaded just at the juncture of hip and pelvis and the twinge made him grunt. How did Frodo _know_ where those sore spots were? It was just enough pain to leave Merry hovering right on the edge of absolute aching need, but it felt indescribably good.

When Frodo made some self-satisfied humming noise under his breath -- as he happily kneaded Merry's hipbones -- Merry opened his eyes to gaze at the shifting shadows on the ceiling. His cousin was enjoying all this a bit _too_ much and Merry was about to say so, when Frodo lifted up and pushed further beneath Merry's hips and something hard and decidedly interested poked at Merry's rump. Before Merry could properly react, Frodo's laid his hands on Merry's abdomen, and leaned over to sweep slowly up his chest around and down his sides, his palms brushing across sensitive nipples and his fingers firmly stroking tender spots in the muscles of his chest. But whatever Merry had been about to say was lost in a gasp as the sparse curls of hair on Frodo's stomach brushed over Merry's aching erection. And did so with each stroke -- up and back, tantalizing tingle and torment. Up and back.

Merry knew the delicious friction would soon start a fire if not for the moisture leaking out of him, dampening the flames as the thick musky scent of arousal joined the scent of juniper and wood smoke. Dropping his head back to the quilts with a jolt, Merry realized he was lost. There was no contest here. He had forfeited this one long ago. He closed his eyes and stars were dancing in the red dark behind his eyelids. He could hear himself making some strange noise in his throat with each sweeping caress, but he couldn't stop. The ache was edging into pain and he thought at any moment his heels might start drumming on the floor and he might just commence to beg. 

Merry felt Frodo's fingers on his wrists before he realized that he had moved his hands to touch himself, to touch Frodo, to do something, anything.

"Frodo -- please?" he rasped. "Please?"

"Hang on to something above your head, love, and stay right where you are. This won't work if you grab onto me." 

Merry threw his hands above his head, grabbing at fistfuls of quilt once more. _This_ won't work? He looked down to see Frodo pouring more oil into his hands. What was _'this'_? More massage? He couldn't take any more massage.

Then Frodo looked up, his eyes the colour of midnight beneath lowered lashes as his hand moved unmistakably beneath Merry's hip -- slicking himself with oil. The musky scent intensified in the air and Merry shivered.

When his hand emerged to grip Merry's hipbone, Frodo was flushed and sweating. Merry knew what was coming next just from the fierce look in Frodo's eyes -- a tantalizing slide of slippery fingers around Merry's buttocks and down -- a slick thumb caressing and tugging at sensitive skin and hair. He had to bite his lip to keep from groaning aloud as one finger pressed into him -- a tentative probe and then a firm push. 

"Yesssss." It was less a word than an exhalation of sound from Merry as he hung on, shuddering while Frodo's finger moved inside him slowly, burning.

Frodo made a slight noise -- a sigh of sound -- and Merry was caught in the intensity of his gaze. Frodo moved his hand just slightly and a second finger joined the first. 

Merry couldn't help it. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, torn between pulling away from the tormenting fingers and impaling himself on them. 

Again, another whisper of sound from Frodo and a third finger slid in. 

This time Merry groaned -- a long low sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest and go on and on. The burning slid into bliss and he felt the fingers move, twisting. He was hanging on the edge of something -- about to slide over, when the pressure and pleasure disappeared, leaving him empty and bereft.

He was about to protest, loudly, then he felt Frodo's hands on both of his hips, lifting him, pulling him into position, and--

"Merry." Frodo whispered his name, a long drawn out sound, and then Merry lost track of everything as Frodo entered him -- filled him. 

Burn and white hot bliss. For a long moment, Frodo was quiet --unmoving except for delicious little shivers that Merry could feel all the way to his toes. He knew that he could feel ever twitch, every shudder, all the way to the ends of his hair. His arousal had only faded a bit with the bite of pressure and fullness, but that would change. 

For a moment, Merry thought that he was imagining things. The sensations were so exquisite that everything felt magnified and sensitized. Frodo was pulling back, almost lifting him up. And Merry felt a breath of moist air where it was impossible for moist air or breathing to be. His eyes flew open. Just seeing what Frodo was doing, or trying to do, almost sent him flying over the edge -- stuffing his knuckles into his mouth seemed the only way to respond. 

Frodo _was_ rather flexible and had been known to scratch his nose with his toe to make the little ones laugh. Merry had seen him attempt to put his ankle around his neck from time to time, when he was rather soused. And once when Frodo was doing some odd tricks of that sort for the fauntlings, Merry had overheard a tween cousin sneer -- _'Bet he can suck his own knob, that'un.'_ Merry hadn't understood it then, but now he did. 

However, this wasn't Frodo's knob. This was very much Merry's knob. And when Frodo's tongue swiped slow and hot over Merry's flagging erection just as Frodo pulled part way out, Merry understood why Frodo had ordered him to hang on to something. If Merry hadn't had his fingers in his mouth, they likely would have heard him in the kitchens. 

There would be payback for this -- involving ropes and caramel sauce and-- and paintbrushes. He might even require Frodo to show him if the tween cousin was right. Yes, payback would be required -- if Merry lived.

Then Frodo was inside him once more -- the pressure sliding into something that sent heat lightning sparking up Merry's spine. Merry found himself tensing and arching as Frodo pulled slowly out. Then Frodo engulfed him in slick heat and suction and there were strange ragged cries, which Merry realized were actually coming from his own throat. When Frodo's head finally lifted, Merry nearly drew blood biting down on his knuckle as he was seared from within once more. 

Stretched taut -- pulled between two points of excruciating sensation -- heat thrusting into him and being sucked from him -- back and forth -- Merry managed, somehow, to find Frodo's face in the simmering blur. The expression there -- intent and feral, lips wet and swollen like some beast feasting on prey -- sent his head back onto the quilt and his hands above his head scrabbling for purchase. He was going to die. 

There was a whispered sound -- an intake of breath -- and the rhythm changed -- shifting into something faster, more urgent -- leaving Merry wet and cold, aching and arching blindly up for the heat of Frodo's mouth while scorching tendrils of fire raced -- unquenched -- up his spine with every thrust. Hips questing upward, gasping desperately, Merry heard harsh breathing in counterpoint. He opened his eyes to see Frodo, head thrown back, the tendons of his throat rigid, mouth open and panting.

"F--frodo." It was all he could manage, but Frodo's fierce gaze scorched him only for a moment. Then Frodo's head dipped impossibly down again with the next thrust, mouth open, and Merry was engulfed, swallowed up in soft wet heat and reamed with fire at the same time, again and again. Desperate noises of need and want and stop and don't stop and red-black flames dancing behind his eyes and waves of fire shimmering on his skin and sliding down his spine and filled and stretched and aching and tight and-- 

Merry shattered, screaming, hanging on a fulcrum of fire.

When he could breathe once more, Merry was spent and shaking -- barely able to pull up his knees as Frodo pushed over and into him slowly and leaned to press wet, hot lips to his. He tasted himself on Frodo's tongue and moaned, feeling the aftershock to his toes.

"So good," Frodo whispered against Merry's mouth, touching his forehead to Merry's and driving into him again, breathing hard. "So hot." Kissing Merry's temple, his hair, his ear and thrusting again. "So beautiful." Sliding his lips down Merry's neck, and pushing in once more, until Merry, shuddering and twitching, shifted and pushed back.

"Mine," Frodo snarled and stroked in once more, then stiffened and buried his face in the crook of Merry's shoulder, muffling his shout of release.

Merry closed his eyes and shivered around the heated pulsing within him, then wrapped his legs around Frodo just as he slowly, inexorably, sagged forward. Merry managed to spill them both onto their sides, Frodo limp and unresisting in his arms -- tousled hair, swollen mouth, wet cheeks -- so very beautiful. Merry leaned forward and pressed a kiss to each eyelid then touched his forehead to Frodo's. 

"Mine," he growled.

***  
TBC


	12. Chapter Eleven - Work of Art

_Work of art: A product of the fine arts, especially a painting or sculpture; also, something likened to a fine artistic work, as by reason of beauty_

"I'm afraid they're ruined for much but work clothes, lad." Izzy dabbed at a blue spot on Frodo's waistcoat without much effect, her forehead creased in a frown.

Frodo patted her hand. "Never you mind, Izzy my love, I get worse ink stains just from sheer absentmindedness. And these are my most worn travelling clothes. At least I didn't have my jacket on."

"Well, I am glad you weren't sittin' in yer best, like the young Master. That would have been a terrible waste."

Shaking his head, Frodo smiled. "Actually I would have gladly sacrificed my best dress jacket and breeches in this particular cause, but don't tell Bilbo." Although Bilbo would likely have quite willingly joined in, after doffing his jacket and waistcoat, of course. 

"I'm surprised the toff agreed ta let ya sit in those. Not that they aren't quite fine themselves, but he were quite highhanded about Master Merry sittin' in his best." She frowned and leaned in, licking the cloth and wiping at a spot on Frodo's face. 

"I imagine he was, but I was a bit persuasive myself," Frodo smirked. 

"Based on what I am hearin' from upstairs, I must agree with ya." She grinned back at him, sitting back down on her stool and surveying the hectic, noisy work going on around them. "Them that helped the toff pack tell me that his bottom half were quite the work of art." She leaned forward to poke him in the ribs. 

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Really? I wonder how that happened?"

"Well, ta hear him tell it, he tripped on that 'horrid threadbare rug'." She managed a fair imitation of Todo. "Fell right in his own paints and then sat on the floor -- several times it appears from the carpetin'." 

"Clumsy of him." Frodo took a sip of his wine, trying not to grin. 

"Yes. Just good luck that we picked that parlour to put him in, considerin'." She glared in the direction of a clumsily dropped pot. "Being as he seems to have a right awful time of it stayin on his feet. When Master Merimac was sittin for him, he tripped over something and fell right into his paints, 'cept that time it were headfirst. And then he ran into the wall -- several times in fact. Ruined some good wallpaper that time." 

Frodo barely managed to stifle a snort and nearly got wine all over himself in addition to the paint. 

Izzy looked a bit too pleased with herself as she pointed her spoon at him. "Yes, and as I recall, there were a fauntling lad at the time found with paint in his hair and his waistcoat gone missin'. And him and Master Merimac thick as thieves after that." She tapped the spoon against her chin thoughtfully. "Does seem a bit of a coincidental, don't it?"

It was odd, he wasn't the least inclined to worry about what he had just done to Todo -- picking him up and dropping him on his paints then helping the artist point out all the threadbare spots in the carpeting by sitting on them, quite hard, and repeatedly -- with some rather forceful persuasion involved. But Frodo could still blush fiercely over his very first prank at Brandy Hall as a young lad -- the first of many. 

He bent quickly to hide the guilty colour in his cheeks, adjusting the covering on the package leaning against the table next to him. It had been priceless revenge to see the terrified look on Todo's face when he had finally connected Frodo with that blue-eyed, dark-haired hobbit child who he had sneered at all those years ago -- the faunt he had called "strange-looking" and "odd-featured". Frodo smiled, remembering how proud he had been to earn Merimac's praise when he had thrown himself on the floor and tripped Todo when Merimac pushed him. It had been sheer luck that the arrogant peacock had fallen headfirst into his paint. 

"So, he's gone then?" he straightened, trying to look innocent. 

Izzy's mouth quirked and she squinted at him. "Indeed. Left pretty quickly, I would say. The lads're still cleaning the parlour. Course, the carpet's ruined. Rolled up and gone." She waved her hand. "Just like the toff. Won't be back, that un. Said he'll 'no longer subject hisself to such accommodaments, Master or no' or some such rubbish."

Frodo lifted his glass in farewell. "Well, I hope he finds happiness painting some wealthy, wrinkled old gammers in the Northfarthing who can tolerate his airs."

Izzy lifted her ever-present mug of cider. "And don't have no lads about who'll turn him into a work of art."

"Speaking of work of art, I hear--"

"Yes, yes! What're you doing standing here jawing with me anyways?" She waved her spoon at him. "Yer late for the unveiling."

"But I thought Uncle Rory was going to present it--"

"At the party, yes, but he wanted the immediate family to see it first, with herself, then they'll cover it back for the doins'. You need to be in there, lad," she said, suddenly solemn. "You _belong_ in there." She nodded fiercely, planting one hand on her hip.

When he hesitated for only a moment, she waved her spoon. "Go. Get outta my kitchen." And then she grinned broadly at him. 

He grinned back and sat down his glass, grabbing the package and heading out at a fast clip. But at the door into the corridor, he stopped and turned, coming back at a more sedate pace and leaning in to kiss her cheek. "I owe you a thorough snog you know."

"Many of them, you scamp of a Baggins. Now scat!"

Frodo laughed and headed down the corridor. He could hear voices echoing from the great hall, although he couldn't hear the words. Merry had missed breakfast and second breakfast this morning, and Frodo shivered deliciously thinking about what had made both of them sleep so late. But Merry had headed out with every intention of having a serious talk with the scions of the Hall over lunch. Frodo smiled as he thought of the caramel sauce he had helped Merry clean off his neck before he could properly dress. Frodo, on the other hand, had headed off to his assignation with the toff, which had, if he had to say so himself, turned out quite well. 

Smirking as he thought of the look on Todo's face when he realized exactly who had him by the collar, Frodo ran his hand through his hair and looked down at himself. Really, considering the paint that had been flying about in that room, he was relatively unscathed -- the worst was hidden by his jacket, since he had been in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. And besides, now he had a lovely, bawdy tale to share with Bilbo and Merimac, and of course Merry, about the rather inappropriate, and clumsy, advances of a certain painter. He could only hope that Merry's plans for lunch had been as successful. 

He walked sedately into the hall -- already partially decorated for the coming festivities -- and was relieved to see that it was only the immediate family, no staff were lingering about. And Merry was looking quite content and relaxed as he stood with his hand resting on his grandfather's shoulder. Things must have gone well at lunch -- his Uncle Rory was smiling and his Uncle Sara was standing on the other side of his father's chair, looking -- slightly bemused. His Aunt Esmeralda was trying very hard to look stern as she surveyed the contingent of male Brandybucks lined up before her. She had her hands planted on her hips and was looking from the three of them to the painting -- draped in green cloth and beribboned in gold -- hanging on the wall next to those of Merry's father and uncle and grandfather and a line of Brandybucks stretching back to the founding of the Hall. Frodo leaned his package against a nearby trestle table and walked quietly toward where they stood. 

"Now, what is this all about? The staff is in an uproar -- rolling up ruined parlour rugs and trying to sneak them past me, packing up guests and practically tossing them into the road -- and now you three." She saw Frodo first, as he strolled up behind the three accused, and as he watched, that stern mouth quirked ever so slightly. "You _four_."

Merry spun around and his face lit up happily as he grabbed Frodo's shoulder. "Frodo!" 

Sara turned with an admonishing look. "Well, I should have known you were here the moment I caught Izzy bribing Tom for more bottles of the '99." Then he took Frodo's hand with a smile.

Frodo grinned broadly.

"Bollocks, I knew he was here when I saw your son and heir looking like he swallowed the moon," came Rory's gruff voice.

Frodo saw Merry blush as Frodo knelt down quickly to take his uncle's hand. "How are you, old Uncle?"

A gnarled hand rose to rest on his shoulder, and Frodo was suddenly aware of the piercing gaze of those rheumy eyes. He wondered what exactly _had_ been said at lunch. "How is my favourite Baggins then? You didn't bring that other Baggins with you this time I hope -- the irritating fellow that won't stop talking?"

Frodo laughed. "He is coming later, Uncle. I'm afraid I am the sole Baggins representative, for the moment."

"And representing the Baggins contingent quite well, from what I hear," Esmeralda chimed in.

"Indeed," Rory said brusquely.

Frodo grimaced and risked a sideways glance at Merry, wondering precisely what "representing" meant.

"Well, now the whole family is here, are we going to unveil this work of art?" Sara asked impatiently. 

_The whole family_. Frodo felt something warm bloom in his chest as he straightened up and felt Merry's arm press around him firmly, his fingers tightening on Frodo's shoulder. He covered Merry's hand with his own and looked up at the covered painting expectantly. 

"Well, uncover it lass!" barked Rory.

Esmeralda smiled and tugged at one side of the cloth.

It was even more gorgeous than Frodo remembered it. Merry gazed out at them, bright as the sun shining in the sky -- sitting there proud and tall like some ancient warrior clad in scarlet and gold mail. 

Frodo heard his aunt gasp loudly, and then she just lifted her hand to her mouth and stood there, eyes wide and filling, gazing at her son's image. For a long moment, no one said a word, then she turned, almost unable to tear her eyes away from the portrait, and stood before Merry. Frodo stepped aside as she took Merry by the shoulders and hugged him. 

"It is magnificent. _You_ are magnificent. I cannot believe you sat still for _that_ long." She cupped his face in her hands and leaned in to kiss him. "Thank you, Meriadoc." She looked back up at the portrait. "I know what a sacrifice that must have been for you."

Merry was wearing his noble, chin-out expression, and Frodo noted with a smile that the blush really didn't take away _too_ much from the overall effect.

Then Esmeralda knelt and threw her arms around her father-in-law for a long, long while, and kissed his cheek. "You old trickster. You keep surprising me with things like this and I shall start believing you are secretly sneaking off to the Old Forest every night and dancing reels with the faeries."

Rory looked quite pleased with himself.

When she stood up before her husband, Frodo noticed that they both looked slightly uncomfortable -- a bit like two tweens who had just been introduced at a party. He glanced around at Merry, who grimaced and then raised his eyebrows. Yes, Frodo was going to enjoy hearing exactly what had transpired over lunch. He turned back, to find his uncle and aunt hugging each other, although a bit stiffly -- then his uncle whispered something and Esmeralda actually laughed, pushing him away. 

"Is everyone in this _Hall_ tweening now?" growled Rory.

Esmeralda frowned at her father-in-law, but her eyebrow quirked up and gave her away. Then she reached out to take Frodo's hands in hers, holding them firmly. He remembered those hands -- wiry and strong, and ink-stained, just like his. He smiled back at her, squeezing her fingers gently.

"Thank you, Frodo -- for being here for this -- for being here for us." She looked over at Merry. "For everything." She leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, then turned around and looked up at the portrait, wrapping one arm around Merry's shoulders, her fingers still wrapped around Frodo's. 

Sara stepped over and laid his hand on Merry's shoulder and Merry reached out to put his hand on his grandfather's arm. When Rory looked around at all of them and slowly smiled, putting his hand over Merry's, Frodo realized that, for a brief moment, the real work of art wasn't on the wall at all.

***  
TBC


	13. Epilogue - Soufflage

_Soufflage: a technique in which liquid paint is blown to inspire or reveal an image_

They stood there for a long moment, linked together, looking up at the portrait of the future Master of the Hall. Then, of course, Merry fidgeted.

"Feels odd, me hanging on the wall looking down at me like that," he muttered.

"Not at all," Rory responded. "It will hang here for a long, long time, lad, get accustomed to it."

Sara stepped away, pulling a soft hat out of his jacket and Esmeralda turned to look expectantly at the package leaning against the trestle.

"So, are you gifting someone as well, Frodo?" she asked. "It isn't _your_ birthday for a good while yet."

"Gift?" Frodo blushed, realizing his mistake. "Uh, well, no. Actually, it was-- I was--"

"From what I hear, you were considering getting a portrait done, or some such, yes?"

Frodo turned and, out of view of the others, glared at Merry, who merely stuck out his chin.

"Some such, yes. I was, but it didn't quite work out."

Esmeralda was nothing if not persistent. She walked over to the package and tugged at the cloth, looking back at him. "Well, can we see it?"

"It's just a preliminary sketch. It-- apparently Mister Bunce had an accident after I left the parlour and it was ruined. Your staff was kind enough to wrap it for me, in case I wanted to keep it." Frodo gestured to the painting glowing on the wall. "Merry's portrait is much more worthy of our attention, I think."

Esmeralda looked up at her son's portrait. "Yes, it is beautiful. But you have piqued my curiosity now. At least let us see what our Frodo would look like captured in oil. Perhaps one day you will complete a sitting for a portrait yourself."

"Perhaps." Frodo looked around at the expectant faces. 

Even Rory was leaning over to see what the fuss was about. "Well, bring it over here where I can see as well!" he complained. 

Sighing, Frodo picked up the canvas, undoing the wrapping as he walked. He sat it against the wall under Merry's portrait and uncovered it.

"It's wonderful," Merry said in a hushed tone. 

Frodo moved back to look at the paint-spattered sketch and back up at Merry. "Are you sure your eyes are working, cousin? It is smeared with paint--"

"No, he's right. It is you. Certainly it is spattered and smeared, but someone might be able to clean that up," Esmeralda agreed. 

"Looks altogether too casual to me," Rory said. "Didn't ye have a decent jacket to put on then?" 

"Mister Bunce was trying to capture my-- 'unrestrained essence', I think he said," Frodo tried not to smirk as he said it. Todo was actually trying to capture something else entirely, and the less clothing in the way, the better. 

Merry stepped forward, his eyes still glued to the ruined drawing. "May I have it?" he asked quietly. 

Frodo stared at the picture, then at his cousin. "Certainly -- if you want it, Merry. Of course." 

Merry just stood there, continuing to gaze at it.

Esmeralda had moved up right behind Frodo and leaned in to take another look. "You know, it reminds me of something." 

"Well, it reminds me there's work to be done around here before the entire Westfarthing shows up on our doorstep. Can I help you to your study then da?" Sara said quickly, walking over to his father's chair and offering his arm. 

"No," Rory declined, looking up at the painting of Merry, then over at Sara's and Merimac's portraits, then, pointedly, down at Frodo's sketch. "I think I'll sit here and enjoy my lads for a bit. I can get myself around, son."

"Fine then. Well, Merry, if you can come up to--"

"Merry's busy this afternoon, Sara. Remember?" Esmeralda said quickly.

Merry's head jerked up and he looked back and forth between his parents. 

Sara hit his hat against his thigh. "Slipped my mind in all this excitement. Then I will see you all at supper." He pointed at Frodo and then at Merry with a stern glare. "Including you two young gentle-hobbits -- and try not to ruin any more parlours before the festivities." Cramming the hat onto his head, he headed for the outside door.

"I know!" Esmeralda's voice was right at Frodo's shoulder and he nearly jumped through the ceiling. "It looks _exactly_ like that little waistcoat we found hidden in one of the lower cellars a while back. Spattered with oil paint, just like that. How odd."

Frodo's stomach went through the floor. Luckily no one but Merry could see his face blazing. But she _knew_. She had known all along. Likely she knew every single prank he had ever pulled in the Hall or around it. He blushed harder when he thought about all the other things she likely knew as well. 

Merry frowned at them both. Ah yes, Frodo would have to share the terrible tale of Merimac and the silk wallpaper and Frodo the apprentice prankster.

"Well, no matter." Fingers squeezed his shoulder. "It is a beautiful likeness of a lovely lad. Merry should be proud to own it." Frodo heard the fabric of her skirts rustle as she moved away. "Don't worry about dressing for supper, Frodo. It will just be us. What you have on is fine -- even with the paint spatters."

His mouth quirked and he almost laughed out loud, shaking his head, still unable to turn and meet her gaze. She was a bit of a tease, his aunt. "Yes m'am. Thank you," he managed in a choked voice. 

Merry was looking at him quizzically. "What was _that_ all about?" he asked quietly as his mother headed for the kitchens.

"We will see you at supper then, Uncle." Frodo called out, pulling Merry toward the doors into the front hall. 

Rory waved in response.

"Well?" Merry asked, as they headed for the main stairs. 

"It is a long story which I will tell you, I promise," Frodo said quickly. "And I want to hear all about your lunch."

"Yes, well--" Merry stopped on the landing, panting. " _Why_ are you in such a rush, Frodo?"

Frodo finally stopped and turned back. He looked around cautiously, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a large paintbrush, waving it slowly in front of Merry's face. "I have an appointment in your room with a very talented artist and some warm caramel paint." 

Merry's eyes grew very large and his grin grew very wide, then he grabbed Frodo's arm and dragged him up the stairs at a rapid clip.

* * * * *  
FINIS


End file.
